


Prairie Lullaby

by Ooshka



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 142,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ooshka/pseuds/Ooshka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan never expected a fairytale.  Certainly not from the circumstances she found herself in. Out of options and with her son Henry to support she's come to Kansas as the mail-order bride of Liam Jones. But Liam's untimely demise has left her in the care of his brother Killian and nothing is turning out like she thought it would.</p>
<p>Killian Jones was nobody's idea of hero.  But he'd try to do what Liam would have wanted. Even if that meant keeping Emma as his own, knowing he was a poor second choice.</p>
<p>Storybrooke, Kansas, wasn't exactly what it seemed on the outside. Respectable is a relative term when you're living out on the prairie, and people will do what they have to do to survive.</p>
<p>Thrown together and facing an uncertain future, Emma and Killian must decide if they will find their own kind of happy ending in a strange kind of place</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**A/N This story has been available on my Tumblr (ooshka-babooshka) and on FFnet for a while now, but I'm putting up the first 15 chapters here, and, going forward, will add new ones as they're written.** _

 

Emma sat at the kitchen table and turned the envelope over in her hands. "Are you going to open it?" her son asked, excitedly. Since he'd brought her the post twenty minutes earlier Henry had been itching for her to get on and rip the letter open, but Emma had stalled him, saying she needed to sweep and then lay the fire in the sitting room first, and had sent him outside to fetch more kindling.

It wasn't that she was nervous, but her stomach couldn't seem to settle. She knew this letter would contain the offer she'd clearly been working towards since she had first replied to Liam Jones' advertisement for a wife. At least, she hoped that's what it contained. There was every chance he had merely written to inform her that he was halting their correspondence and would not be contacting her further.

It wouldn't be the first time Emma Swan had been rejected, but she wanted to spare her son the pain of such a letter. Henry had been the driving force behind this plan, anxious for the adventure their journey west would bring. Of course Emma hadn't told him the whole truth; while her marriage to a stranger in Kansas would bring adventure, it was also just about their only hope left.

She'd been supporting Henry on her own since his birth, ten years ago now. It had been a hard road and, for almost all of those years, she'd had to leave Henry in the care of Aunt Regina, who was, in reality, an aunt to neither of them, so that she could live and work as a housekeeper. But now Aunt Regina had died and her boarding house was passing on to the son of a distant cousin, and Henry and Emma needed to find another place to live.

Emma's options were limited, and she had Henry to consider. There were many ways she could sell herself and becoming someone's mail-order bride seemed the most palatable.

At least it had, until this moment when it all became a little too real. She tore open the envelope and read the lines of neat, black handwriting. It was something she'd grown to like about Liam Jones, his handwriting spoke of a man who knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to take a risk. It made her feel a little more comfortable with the thought of being his bride.

"Well, what's it say Mama?" Henry asked.

She scanned the letter, and took out the train tickets which had been enclosed in the folded paper. "It says that we're going to Kansas, Henry."

"Really?" Henry's eyes were wide with excitement.

"Really, truly. Storybrooke, Kansas, here we come!" Emma hoped that she was doing a good job of mimicking Henry's joy at the journey ahead of them. There was no need, after all, to let him think that this was anything other than the adventure he wanted it to be. She'd spent a lot of years protecting Henry from the reality of just how precarious their position was, and she wasn't going to let anything slip now. Not when they were so close to their escape.

It wasn't the first time Emma had packed up her belongings to leave town, and it didn't take her long to complete the task. She added in a few things that had belonged to Regina, as well. Henry had wondered out loud whether Regina would have wanted them to have her best tablecloth, but Emma assured him that Aunt Regina had left it to them in her will.

She hadn't, of course. Aunt Regina had merely been the proprietor of the boarding house where Emma had worked as a maid, right up until the day she gave birth to Henry on the kitchen floor. She'd been quite proud of her ability to hide her pregnancy, but significantly worried about how her employer would react to the sudden arrival of a baby.

Regina had, fortunately, been rather swayed by the helpless newborn and had allowed Emma to stay as she recovered, and had then offered to mind Henry while Emma looked elsewhere for employment, her job as a maid having been filled by a local girl while Emma recuperated in bed.

Regina had arranged a position as housekeeper with a Dr Hopper, and agreed that she would keep Henry for Emma until she could send for him.

But that had never happened, and it was only Regina's failing health which had brought Emma back. She had been trying, mostly unsuccessfully, for all of that time to save enough money to start her own business and allow her to finally have a life with her son. But Henry had, to all intents and purposes, been brought up by Regina rather than Emma and it wasn't something she could change now.

So if she wanted to take a few linens, she was going to take a few linens, move to Kansas and, finally, have her son all to herself.

Bags packed they set off on the long journey. Henry was excited by the prospect of the train, even after they'd changed trains more than once. Emma's enthusiasm had long since waned. She was constantly wary, watching all the people around them and evaluating whether any of them meant her harm. It was, she thought, a nasty habit, but a hard one to break all the same.

She tried to tune back into the conversation Henry had begun. "Perhaps we'll see real Indians. Like in my book!" He held up his treasured collection of cowboy stories.

"Perhaps," Emma replied, as they settled into their seats. She rather hoped not, however. The less excitement on their journey, the better, as far as she was concerned.

"Do you think he's killed any Indians?" Henry asked.

"Who?"

"Mr Jones." Henry looked over at her expectantly.

"I don't think so, Henry."

Henry looked thoughtful for a moment. "Perhaps his brother?"

"Oh." Emma didn't really feel qualified to comment on Liam Jones' brother. All that had been mentioned about him in the letters she'd received was that he lived on the farm as well and was younger than Liam Jones was.

"I think," she said, slowly, realising that Henry was still waiting for a reply. "That they're both more likely farmers, than cowboys."

"I suppose so, Mama." Henry sounded a little sad at that and Emma realised that she may have made a mistake in buying Henry that book. It had no doubt made the Western states sound a lot more romantic than she suspected they were going to be. But she'd wanted share something with him, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Emma sighed, and turned to look out the window at the platform filled with other passengers. In her head she counted out the money contained in the small purse she carried and considered how much she'd allow for meals at each remaining stop along the way. She didn't want to eat into her funds any faster than she had need to; there was no telling when she'd require something for emergencies.

Gazing at the people walking past the train Emma tried very hard to stop the familiar, gnawing worry in the pit of her stomach as she contemplated her future, and failed.

She was going to be someone's wife. She was going to be Mrs Liam Jones. She was going to have nothing to worry about and all the bad things that had happened in her life wouldn't matter anymore.

She repeated that a few times, took a deep breath, and then smiled over at Henry who, she realised, had been watching her as she calmed herself. It was disconcerting how old he looked sometimes, when he looked at her like he was the parent and she was the child. It broke her heart to realise that, although she'd done her best to shelter him from the harsh realities of the world, she still hadn't been able to give him the childhood he'd deserved.

Emma tried to think of something to say, to lighten the mood. But nothing sprang to mind. And then they were interrupted by a woman's voice, "Excuse me, but may I ask you a very delicate question?"

Emma turned to see a strikingly attractive woman addressing her. The woman was petite, with glossy dark hair and cornflower blue eyes and the most beautiful porcelain skin. Her ringlets gave her the appearance of one of the china dolls Emma had only ever seen in stores, but never owned.

"Of course," Emma replied, and the woman rewarded her with a wide smile.

"I've been reliably informed by the porter that you are travelling to Kansas…to Storybrooke, Kansas?" the woman asked.

"Yes, that's right."

"Good!" the woman said, sitting down next to Henry. "I'm going there too, only my chaperone has been taken ill. I noticed that you were in the company of such a handsome and capable gentlemen, and I hoped that he would take pity on a poor damsel in distress and escort me the rest of the way as well."

Henry stared open-mouthed at the woman as he realised she was speaking about him. "I'm Mary Margaret Blanchard," she said, offering her hand first to Henry, who shook it, while still sporting a dazed look, and then to Emma.

"I'm Emma Swan, and this is my son Henry."

"Well, I'm charmed to meet you both!" Miss Blanchard trilled.

Emma surveyed the carriage's new occupant. Her dress was a fine pale green silk, far too clean for her to have travelled far. Emma thought that under her bright smile and faultless manners Mary Margaret was probably as nervous as Emma was herself. She really hoped that Henry didn't bring up the Indians again.

"What takes you to Storybrooke?" Emma inquired, as the train started up again.

"I'm to be the new schoolmistress," Miss Blanchard said proudly. "Apparently the last one left and I just thought…why not?" She shrugged a little. Emma thought there was a story there, but decided not to press Miss Blanchard for it. She had enough problems of her own without dealing with other people's.

"And you and Henry? You have family there?" Miss Blanchard asked, as the train's speed increased and the vista changed to the flat, dry landscape that would mark the rest of their journey.

"I'm to be married," Emma said simply, hoping that would suffice. But Henry chose that moment to find his voice again. "Mama answered an advertisement," he said, proudly. "She's going to meet the man who's been writing to her, and they'll be married. And I'll learn to shoot a gun and fish and then one day, I'll get a baby brother, or sister. It's going to be a great adventure!" He hugged his book tightly to his chest while Emma worried about the brother or sister part of the story. The desire for a sibling wasn't a notion he'd brought up previously and it wasn't something that Emma particularly wanted to dwell on.

Miss Blanchard's smile remained frozen to her face for just a few seconds longer than was natural, and then she composed herself. "Well," she said. "That is going to be quite the adventure. I hope you'll still have time to come to school."

Henry nodded solemnly. "Yes, ma'am."

"And as for you, Mrs Swan." Miss Blanchard turned to face Emma, her blue eyes shining. "I hope you find the man of your dreams waiting for you."

"I…yes." Emma was lost for words. She didn't dare contemplate anything as foolish as finding romantic love in Storybrooke. A place to call home, a safe place, for Henry and for herself, that was what she desired above all else.

The rest was just a fairy tale.

"Anyone hungry?" Miss Blanchard asked, delving into her bag. "I have sandwiches!"

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Killian Jones raised his head off the table and groaned. The light that seeped under the door of the small cabin seemed unusually bright and he instantly regretted drinking as much whiskey as he had the previous night. But it had been his own private wake for his brother Liam so he'd been able to justify finishing the bottle, and starting the next one. At the time, it had seemed entirely appropriate.

Now, however, it seemed like a bloody foolish idea. Not only had he lost the morning and no work had been done but there was something niggling at the back of his mind. Something he was supposed to do.

And then it hit him with a cold wave of dread. Today was the day she arrived. Bloody Liam! Killian couldn't decide what, currently, annoyed him the more; the fact that Liam had decided, without telling him first, to advertise for a bride, or the fact that Liam had subsequently got himself killed by a random lightning strike.

It wasn't that Killian couldn't understand the desire for female companionship; he could certainly see the advantages of having a woman in your bed every night. But a wife just seemed like a rather substantial and permanent addition to their lives and, right then, the last thing they needed were any additions. They were struggling enough as it was.

No, he realised. Not they. It wasn't him and Liam anymore. It was just him. And he'd have to do something about the woman.

He had a plan, a tentative one at any rate. One he almost hoped wouldn't work out. And, he reminded himself, as he tightened the straps on the brace which held the hook that had replaced his left hand, it was highly unlikely it would come to fruition. No, the woman would arrive, and leave again, and he'd still have the problems he had before, but at least he wouldn't have any new ones.

Status quo was nothing to be sniffed at.

He stood up and stretched, trying to get a bearing on exactly how late in the day it was. The train should be arriving around two o'clock…at least that was what her last letter had said. The one which had arrived the morning after his brother's death.

He glanced over at where it lay on the table, next to the half-drunk bottle from the night before. Emma Swan, for that was the woman's name, had sent Liam a rather blunt and precise account of the journey she was about to undertake to reach him. It was hardly Killian's idea of a courtship; it all seemed so cold, so business-like. But Liam had reasoned that finding a wife in this god-forsaken little town was unlikely to be an easy task and, for their farm to survive, they needed some extra help.

And this woman came with a son. A ten year old son who would be already able to do some odd-jobs around the place. This way, Liam had explained, when he'd finally confessed to Killian what he'd been up to, they'd kill two birds with one stone.

Killian wasn't sure that he really liked the idea of being replaced with a ten year old, but he was hardly in a position to argue, was he? Not these days. Not since his unfortunate…incident. Not since he'd been left crippled and useless and he could see the pity and dismay in Liam's eyes every time he looked at him. Not since he'd become such an angry shell of a person that Liam had obviously decided that he was better off with a woman he'd never met and her boy.

Killian sighed. It was no good blaming Liam. What's done was done. The woman...Emma, he reminded himself. Emma Swan would be here soon, and he still had a morning's worth of work to cram into the short space of time before that happened.

As it was, he could see the train departing before he arrived in the main street of Storybrooke. The place was basically only a main street, of course. Just a collection of wooden buildings alongside a dirt road and a railway track.

He and Liam had craved adventure, had wanted to see the world. He hadn't quite expected to end up trading one small town for another. Sure the landscape was different, but the people…well. People were the same wherever you went and Killian didn't have much time for any of them.

He'd had to complete a less than pleasant errand before collecting the woman from the train, which made him even later to meet her. Still, it would hardly matter, if, as he hoped, the news of Liam's death sent her back to where she'd come from on the next train out of Storybrooke. Poor timekeeping on his part was unlikely to be the thing she found most disappointing about her, now, rather pointless journey.

That thought cheered him up, slightly, as he pulled the wagon up to a halt near the platform and dismounted, before hitching the horses, very carefully, to the nearby post. He double checked that they were secure, and then made his way up the steps to survey the passengers who'd alighted from the train.

He could spot her almost immediately. Her green dress stood out amongst the dusty garb the other travellers wore. She had bent her head of fine, dark curls and was talking to a boy with dark hair who was, no doubt, her son.

Well, Killian had to admit, she wasn't bad looking. She had a sweet face and laughed a lot and looked nothing like the rather stern looking blonde woman who was standing nearby, watching her interact with the boy.

But then, just as Killian approached the steps to the platform, something rather odd happened. Mr Gold and David Nolan, the sheriff, appeared from the opposite end and spoke briefly to the woman who then collected her belongings and disappeared with them, with only the briefest of waves over her shoulder, leaving her son alone with the stern woman who looked like she'd never smiled in her life.

It was hardly motherly behaviour. He almost felt sorry for the lad, but, honestly, if his mother was that fickle maybe he would be better off abandoned. And then Killian felt indignation rising on Liam's behalf. She was, after all, supposed to be Liam's bride, and he'd paid for her ticket out here. He hadn't intended his investment to immediately decide to sport herself with Gold and Nolan.

He hesitated on the steps to the platform, unsure of what to do next. If the woman had gone, then, surely, he did not need to continue any further. He had no responsibility for the boy, not really. Perhaps his mother might come back and claim him later on, like a hatbox she'd left in a cloakroom. Killian took one step backwards, and then, after a pause, lifted his foot to take another one.

But then the stern woman turned to look in his direction, and he realised that she wasn't just stern she was rather attractive as well, but would be more so if she would just stop frowning for five bloody minutes and, at the same time, the boy said "Is that him, Mama?"

Killian was poised, mid-step, as the woman fixed her sea-green gaze on him and he felt at a distinct disadvantage. He had, after all, only moments before been attempting to depart the scene altogether and abandon the boy, who, it must now be supposed was actually this woman's son, to whatever fate had in store for him.

It wasn't exactly the way Liam would have wanted their first encounter to go.

"Mrs Swan?" he enquired, stepping forward again and trying to get himself back on a more equal footing. With that in mind, he was careful to keep his left hand hidden behind his back. No need to scare either of them outright, was there?

At least, he liked to pretend that. He liked to pretend that he'd given up on vanity after the incident that had caused his injury. Liked to think that it wasn't because he was terrified her stern gaze would soften to one of pity and embarrassment just because he was missing a hand.

"Yes." She took a faltering step towards him. "Mr Jones?" Her frown deepened and her eyes raked over his face. Killian had no idea if Liam had ever sent the woman a photograph of himself or if this was the first time she was going to see him. First time she  _had been_  going to see Liam, Killian corrected in his head.

He still wasn't used to all the tenses being different.

"Killian," he replied, trying out a smile on her, to see if she'd reciprocate. "Killian Jones. Not Liam."

"Oh." Her frown relaxed a little, but there was still no hint of a smile. "You're his brother."

Killian couldn't help but notice the disappointment in her voice as she said that. And while he knew, logically, that it stemmed from her believing that the man she'd come to marry had sent his brother to collect her in his stead, it was hard not to take it personally. Still, he could hardly blame her. He'd never been able to hold a candle to Liam, and he knew it.

He might be many things, but self-deluded he wasn't.

"I am," Killian agreed, forgetting for a moment that he should have used the word 'was' instead.

"Very well," Emma Swan said, to no one in particular. She'd stopped looking at Killian and her eyes drifted over the few dusty wooden buildings that made up the town, as though she was making up her mind about something.

Killian followed her gaze wondering what it was she was trying to figure out. Liam was the one who'd been set for the adventure that was supposedly found out on these prairies; Killian hadn't really questioned him at the time. Now, it was just him and this woman who'd come here for her own reasons. Perhaps she'd thought it would be an adventure too.

She turned back to Killian and gave him a weak attempt at a smile. "Perhaps, Mr Jones, if you could see to helping us with our luggage we can be off to meet…the other Mr Jones." She was frowning again by the end of the sentence and the boy, who'd been off to the side regarding Killian curiously while their exchange had taken place, had now picked up a small case and moved closer to his mother. Without looking in the boy's direction, she raised her hand a little and he took it.

It struck him, suddenly, that the frown that marred her features was most likely a mask she was wearing. It was undeniable that she was pretty; some of her hair had come loose from her bonnet and it swirled about her head like strands of gold. Her features were even and pleasant and she held her head high, but her eyes spoke of the turmoil beneath the surface. She was putting on a good show, but she was struggling all the same.

Killian knew how she felt. He realised it was time to come clean, on more than one matter. "I would endeavour to help you, Mrs Swan, but I am afraid I am compromised in that department." He moved his left hand from behind his back and braced, waiting for the outpouring of embarrassment and sympathy on Emma Swan's part.

It didn't come. The boy's eyes went a little wider but Mrs Swan stayed stock-still. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realise."

"I'll see if there's a porter…or someone…" Killian said, ducking his head so he didn't have to meet her gaze. It wasn't the worst look he'd ever received, but, for reasons he wasn't really sure about himself, he didn't like the idea of this woman looking at him like, well. Like a cripple.

"No, it's fine," she said. "We can manage. Henry, pass that to Mr Jones." The boy held out the case he was holding, as well as the book he'd clutched the whole time, and Killian took it with his good hand. Henry was staring much more openly at Killian's hook, but at least he didn't shrink back in fear of being impaled.

That was a start.

"Did Indians do that?" the boy asked, curiously.

"No. It was an accident. It was…my fault." Better to own up to it, he thought. The boy just nodded, the woman was too busy with her baggage to pay much attention.

She directed Henry to take one end of their trunk, and then she picked up the other, also managing her own small bag, and then, awkwardly, they began to make their way along the platform. The boy was clearly struggling with his end of the trunk and Killian had a sudden urge to prove that he wasn't as crippled as she seemed to think, so he motioned for them to stop and there was an awkward moment where positions were swapped as he passed Henry's belongings back to him and tried to get Mrs Swan to give up her own bag, which she refused to do, before he finally picked up the end of the trunk in his one good hand and they all made their way down the steps to where the wagon was hitched.

Killian was aware of a few curious glances from the people milling about, but it wasn't anything he wasn't used to. Some people in town most likely knew that Liam had been expecting the arrival of his new bride. No doubt they were all counting themselves lucky that they weren't in her situation. Perhaps it might have better if she'd followed her fellow passenger and left with Nolan and Gold rather than being stuck with him.

And just having that thought, Killian realised, was a testament to how dark his thoughts currently were.

And when they reached the wagon he was reminded, sharply, of the other part of his confession. Mrs Swan had been concentrating on the baggage but Henry dropped his bag abruptly and pointed to the plain wooden coffin that Killian had collected from the undertaker prior to arriving at the station. Killian set down the end of the trunk and took a deep breath.

"Ah," he said, turning to look at Mrs Swan, who'd put her end of the trunk down now as well. "That would, unfortunately, be Liam."

He could acknowledge that fact, he discovered, without the terrible burning pain in his chest that accompanied a sentence containing the words 'Liam' and 'dead', but it didn't make it any easier when he saw the look that crossed Mrs Swan's face. She paled, noticeably, and her eyes went wide for just a moment as her mouth opened, almost involuntarily it seemed. He wondered if she would shriek or cry out or faint or do any of those things that silly women did on hearing bad news and he wondered what he would do if she did. He didn't want to comfort her while she expressed all the pain that he'd been trying so hard to forget. The drink had helped, at least for a while, but the rest of the time it was all he could do to keep from sinking to the ground with a great howl of despair.

Emma Swan was looking at him sharply, he realised, while the boy still stared at the coffin. "Liam Jones?" she asked, as though he might have the body of another Liam just lying around.

"Aye."

"Oh." Whatever reaction he'd thought she'd have, it wasn't that. She wasn't even shocked by the news. It was almost as if she'd been expecting it.

Killian was so surprised that he stared at her in wonder for a moment, forgetting what he was supposed to say next. This was the make or break moment, the one where he played all his cards and it either went his way, or it didn't, in which case he could walk away relieved and no worse off than he was now.

But this woman who expected to come to town to find her supposed husband gone; this wasn't part of any scenario he'd played out in his head.

"How?" she asked, after a while.

"Lightning strike. Just…one of those things." It was senseless and that was what tore at Killian the most. It could have struck anyone, at any time, and it had somehow managed to hit Liam. But it should have been him. He should have been the one in the field.

But he was useless with one hand. And his uselessness had cost his brother his life.

He took a deep breath and began on his speech, the one he'd tried to formulate the night before in that small space of time before the drink made his thoughts slow and his mood black. "I realise that you have travelled a long way expecting to begin a new life as someone's bride. And, although I'm sure Liam would want to be taken care of and for me to…well, I am not yet married and…uh…" He trailed off, unable to quite find the words to tell Mrs Swan that he would take his brother's place.

Killian was certain that it was entirely possible that Liam would have expected him to make her such an offer, had Liam given any thought to the possibility of his potential sudden demise. But even though he knew that it would in some way appease the ghost of his brother, Killian couldn't bring himself to say it outright and watch her search for the words to tell him it was an offer she wouldn't be accepting. He took a deep breath and continued; his eyes fixed on a spot near Mrs Swan's feet. "I won't hold you to the arrangement you had with my brother." He briefly lifted his left arm even though the gesture was probably redundant. She'd already seen it, after all. "So if you wish to stay in town until you can make your way back to your home, then I'll understand."

Killian watched her face carefully, but it was difficult to tell what she was thinking. "There's a boarding house, and probably another train in a few days. I just…" He paused. "I'm afraid I won't exactly be able to help you out. Financially, so to speak."

He breathed a sigh of relief. He'd done it, laid it all out for her. Now all that remained was for her to ask exactly where the boarding house was and he'd help carry their luggage to the door. Well, as much as he was able to help.

Which wasn't much really.

Mrs Swan had retreated into her head again, probably trying to give the appearance of actually considering the other alternative to high-tailing it out of Storybrooke and back to where she came from.

In the meantime the boy approached him again and Killian took a good look at him for the first time. He seemed a little small for his age. He was pale like his mother, but where her colouring was fair, the boy had both dark hair and eyes. No doubt inherited from his father.

It occurred to Killian that he had absolutely no idea of the circumstances under which she'd become a widow, and how long ago it had happened. Certainly she and the boy were not in the least horrified by the presence of Liam's coffin in his wagon. Perhaps she had only just lost him?

But if that was the case, running to the other side of the country seemed an extreme reaction. Didn't she have people who should be looking after her, who would help her? Killian was struck with the sobering thought that coming here, to Liam, was the act of a woman who didn't have a lot of other choices. Returning to that life might not be an option she was willing to entertain.

He began to have a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Will you teach me to fish?" the boy asked, suddenly.

"Aye. If you want," Killian answered, in an off-hand manner. He was still waiting on something, anything, from Mrs Swan. Anything that might give away what she was thinking would be most welcome about now.

"And ride?"

"Well…perhaps, lad."

The boy smiled at that. "I knew it," he said. "I knew that you could teach me to be a real cowboy. Like in my book." He nodded to the large, tattered volume that held in his hands.

"Well. There aren't many cowboys here, lad," Killian said, breaking the news as gently as he could.

"Why?"

"No cattle."

"Oh." The boy was very still and quiet for a moment. His reaction to bad news, so like his mother's, made Killian almost wince. He didn't like the fact he'd disappointed them both so thoroughly within minutes of their first meeting. But then, unlike his mother, his face broke out into a smile again. "But we can still do those other things, can't we?"

"I suppose so." Killian felt quite at ease making promises to the boy because, really, he'd never get the chance to keep them. The longer Henry's mother's silence continued, the more certain Killian felt that she was busy working out how best to extricate herself from his company.

He felt a little melancholy at that thought. She was an odd woman, but an intriguing one all the same. He found himself wishing that Liam had shared more about the contents of her letters, but suspected Liam's reticence was on account of believing that Killian wouldn't take the news about the strange courtship well. That he wouldn't like the idea of Liam getting himself a new family because the old one was so clearly bloody defective.

And now here she was, and she was an enigma to him and it wasn't something he was used to because most people showed plainly on their faces exactly what they thought of him they minute they met him.

"Mama, can we go with Mr Jones now?" Henry asked, turning back to Mrs Swan. "I want to learn to ride today."

Killian looked over at Mrs Swan, whose eyes had been on anywhere but him while she pondered her fate. "Yes," she said, simply. "Yes, I will take you up on your kind offer, Mr Jones."

"My…offer?" He wondered if the riding lessons were to be completed before she disappeared on the first train east.

"I will marry you." Her eyes locked onto his and he thought he could see her resolve bursting through their sea-green depths. Such grim determination to be his bride wasn't the reaction he'd expected.

"Aye," he said, a little more subdued in his response than she'd probably been hoping for. "Let's load these things on the wagon then."

He helped them haul their trunk and cases onto the wagon beside Liam's coffin, then held out his hand to help Emma up onto the front. She took it and then paused and gave him a small, stiff smile, before clambering up. He unhitched the horses feeling a lead weight descending into his abdomen.

This was everything he had dreaded, and more. When he had assumed that the bride would turn heel and flee he had been picturing…well, someone else entirely. But this creature, this alluring stranger who had now agreed to marry him, this was something altogether different.

She'd picked him because she had no choice, because she was in a strange place with no way of returning home and the only way on was forward. She'd picked him because she had a son and she needed a home for the boy.

She'd picked him, and he'd been a poor second choice for his brother Liam. It wasn't the first time it had been so. And it was the reason why Killian thought he felt so down in the mouth now. She'd come here expecting a whole man, a good man, a man who promised her the world. She'd ended up with Killian Jones. It was a raw deal.

But what was at the heart of his dismay, and which he was reluctant to admit to even himself, was that he wanted her to pick him because she wanted him. And now she never would.


	3. Chapter 3

She'd come too far to turn back now.

That thought was foremost in Emma Swan's mind as the train finally pulled into the little station at Storybrooke. She was a world away from Boston, and there was no going back.

The idea was both thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. This was a new start, for her and for Henry. New place, new lives, new everything. At least, that was the plan. Despite her outward optimism Emma suspected, quite strongly, that there would be limits to how far she could go towards carving out a new existence and that she'd never quite rid of herself of the emptiness she felt deep within her being.

She pushed such thoughts away though. Miss Blanchard had been a welcome distraction for Henry on this last leg of their journey, and she had indulgently allowed him to tell her all about his book of cowboy stories, even reading aloud his favourite passages. Emma was glad that Henry would have at least one familiar face when they got to Storybrooke; everything else was going to be strange. Top of the list of strange things would be Henry having a male presence in his life for the first time.

She very much hoped that Liam Jones hadn't been lying when he'd said that he was happy to be a father to someone else's son.

Arriving in Storybrooke had seemed almost unreal. She'd dreamt of the place for so long, planned for this moment and then, there she was, standing on a wooden platform, looking at a bunch of dusty buildings and waiting on a man who was supposed to make her life better.

She was definitely having second thoughts.

Miss Blanchard, however, was not. She was still as full of the joys of life as she had been when she'd boarded their train. Emma wished, deeply, that she could be as carefree as their companion was, that she could still think of this as one big adventure. But she couldn't, not until things were settled, until she knew that Liam Jones would come through for her and not let her down as had happened so many other times in her twenty eight years on earth.

The first thing Liam Jones did to let her down was not actually show up to collect her. The second thing he did to let her down was to die before she arrived.

At first, she'd been intrigued by the presence of Liam's brother in his place. The brother, Killian, wasn't what she'd expected at all. The descriptions of him in Liam's letters had been scant, with only a few remarks about how he wasn't ready to strike out on his own yet.

Emma had supposed him a youth, perhaps not much older than Henry. She'd even, in her more fanciful moments, wondered whether, if that was the case and there was such a difference in age between Liam and Killian, the younger brother might actually be an illegitimate offspring instead.

For that indiscretion, of course, Emma was hardly likely to condemn Liam Jones. No, she'd been prepared to act like a mother towards Killian and hope that he was willing to welcome her into the family as well.

She just hadn't expected his welcome to seem so…forced. She'd watched Miss Blanchard leave with the denizens of the town who had arrived to welcome their new schoolmistress. Sheriff Nolan, especially, had been quite enthusiastic in greeting Miss Blanchard.

But when Emma had come face to face with Killian Jones for the first time he'd been trying to sneak away without her seeing him. It was hardly an auspicious start. He didn't even seem ashamed of the fact he'd tried to leave her and Henry at the station. It was clear that despite the wide smile he'd given her, he wasn't particularly interested in spending time with his brother's new wife.

It shouldn't have mattered, after all, because she'd come here to marry his brother. But she had never contemplated finding Killian not only far from being the youth she imagined, but actually handsome.

It confused her, and Emma didn't really like being confused. She'd made her plans, set her course, and she wasn't going to be swayed by the man with the dark hair and deep blue eyes, whose short beard and strong jaw showed him to be anything but a youth. She simply wasn't that kind of person. It was fine for women like Miss Blanchard to smile and sigh and preen at the first sign of male attention, but Emma was different. She knew her happy ending wasn't going to come from a lover's embrace but from a practical arrangement and a lot of hard work.

Because, after all, it wasn't just her happy ending. It was Henry's too.

And then everything had become even more confusing. She'd realised that he'd been hiding his hand from her as soon as he revealed the hook, and a few things made more sense. And then the final reveal of Liam's coffin occurred and everything made much less sense.

Why did everyone just leave her?

And somewhere in all that confusion, sometime when she'd realised that Henry still thought he was getting his happy ending, she ended up telling the man she thought she'd be a mother to that she would marry him.

There was no going back on that now. By the time all three of them were sitting at the front of the wagon that contained Liam Jones' coffin and her baggage she felt so panicked she almost couldn't breathe. She desperately wanted someone to put their arms around her and say that it was going to be alright, that she'd made the right decision, or, at the least, that she'd made the best decision she could at the time.

But no one was going to do that. It wasn't something she'd ever had before, and it was silly to crave it now. As a foundling and an orphan she'd moved from orphanage to prospective new home and back again several times without anyone ever showing her much in the way of affection. She was always just a problem to be solved, not a little girl who wanted, more than anything, someone who would hug her and tell her she was loved.

She'd grown out of believing it would ever happen. And the fact, she told herself, that she could feel the heat of Killian Jones' leg where it was pressed up against hers so keenly was simply because they were sitting so close in the wagon. The fact that she wanted him to reach out and touch her was clearly because she was a little lost at the moment, in a strange place with a strange man. She'd get past this, too. She didn't really need him to show all that much affection, as long as he wasn't, well, the opposite of affectionate.

That was a whole other scenario that didn't bear thinking about.

The wagon hit a hole in the dusty road and Emma slid sideways, closer to Mr Jones. Without thinking she put out her hand to grasp at his arm and he snatched it away from her as if he was afraid she might burn him.

The hurt came before she had a chance to talk herself out of it, to remind herself that Killian Jones was probably no more pleased with the fact he was stuck with her than the minister and his wife who'd once taken her into their home had been. In that case her carers had decided immediately that her fearful silence and watchful gaze must be a sign of the devil, prompting them to begin their attempt to beat it out of her. This new relationship was nothing different to what she'd experienced before and she would weather it just the same.

Hopefully there wouldn't even be any beatings, she thought ruefully.

Emma turned her attention to Henry instead. He was seated on the other side of her, his book balanced on his lap. She gave his arm a squeeze and, at least, he didn't jerk away, although he did turn and give her a curious look. Emma sighed; she wished she had an easy relationship with Henry but she always felt on tenterhooks around him, as though she was only playing at being his mother and he might decide to halt the game at any time. The years they'd spent living apart, despite the regular visits she'd made to Regina's, meant they were still figuring each other out.

Emma was unsure about a lot when it came to Henry, although she was damn certain that no one was going to be beating the devil out of him anytime soon. He was her world, he had to be. Everything would be fine as long as she had Henry.

It was only when she glanced around again, at the dusty road and the few trees that she noticed that when she had grabbed Mr Jones' arm, it had been his left one, the one with the hook. She realised that perhaps his reaction had less to do with her and more to do with his own embarrassment, but it wasn't exactly something she could ask him about outright. And they were stopping now, anyway.

The wagon had pulled up outside a small, wooden church and she watched as Mr Jones jumped down before hitching the horses. "Are you ready?" he called up to her, but he didn't extend a hand to help her down.

"For?"

He gave her a confused look. "Back there, when you agreed…I thought…" He turned away from Emma and glanced at the church, and she caught his meaning.

"Now?" It wasn't that she wanted time to prepare for a wedding. The ceremony itself hardly mattered, after all. Even if she'd been marrying his brother she wasn't going to be celebrating the love between two people so much as entering into a business relationship with a partner she'd only just met.

But still. It seemed a little rushed to come here straight from the station.

"Aye, well I thought you wouldn't want to…stay. At the farm. With me. Without…" Mr Jones trailed off again. Emma nodded, he was thinking of what was decent. That was something.

"Plus, two birds with one stone," he added, pointing at the coffin in the back of the wagon.

"I'm so glad to be counted one of your birds," Emma said, without thinking. But then she looked at Mr Jones, whose blue eyes were looking at her curiously. She was immediately ashamed. She knew far better than to let her tongue loose, especially when she had just met someone. Especially when that someone was about to become her husband.

She was going to scare him off if she wasn't careful. And she really didn't fancy being abandoned at a church in the middle of, well, nowhere. Not if her time in the minister's house had been any indication of what Christian charity was like.

She covered her embarrassment by carefully climbing down from the wagon and brushing off her dress. It was dusty from travelling, but it wasn't as though she had anything better to change into, even if she had been given the time. This was her only good dress.

Henry, meanwhile, had scrambled down and was looking about him curiously. "Are we going to a funeral now, Mama?" he asked, no doubt memories of Regina's rather sombre service still fresh in his mind.

"Something like that." Emma watched as, without glancing at her, Mr Jones disappeared into the interior of the church. She wondered if she was supposed to follow him, but he was back in a moment with a minister following him.

Emma viewed their approach warily. Neither man was looking at her, or Henry, as they stared intently at the coffin. "We'd better get him down then," the minister said, and she watched as Mr Jones slowly raised his left arm up for the minister to see.

The minister sighed, so loudly that Emma could hear from where she was standing a little distance from the pair. The man's reaction annoyed her greatly but there wasn't anything that could be done about it. Mr Jones was probably used to it.

The minister was heading back towards the church when he pulled up abruptly in front of Emma. "You're the bride?" he asked.

"I am," she confirmed. "Emma Swan."

"Reverend Herman," he replied and then he looked from her, back to Mr Jones, who was standing staring at the ground and looking deeply uncomfortable, but he didn't say anything. He just walked off.

Emma felt a little out of sorts now. One look at Mr Jones made it plain just how much pain he was in. She could only imagine, having never had any close relatives herself, how it felt to face the prospect of burying one.

She wanted to say something, but simply didn't have the words. Any comfort she'd ever received in her own life, and most of the things she'd told herself in the dark hours before the dawn, had been about how everything would be better if she just kept on working hard and hoping for the best.

Hard work and forlorn hope did not bring someone back from the dead.

Henry, meanwhile, had been scuffing in the dirt with the toe of his boot while he watched the assembled adults. In the end he was the one who broke the silence, by slowly making his way over to Mr Jones and announcing, clearly, "I can help…if you want?"

Emma watched as Mr Jones lifted his eyes slowly from the dirt to look at Henry, squinting at him in the sunshine. He was frowning, and for an awful moment Emma thought that he might brush off Henry's offer, or tell him not to be so silly.

In the end he nodded. "Aye. That's appreciated, lad." Then he went back to staring at the ground. Henry looked over at her, probably checking that he'd done the right thing, and she gave him a smile, resisting the urge to go over and hug him instead. She wondered, idly, if that was the reason she'd so desired to comfort Mr Jones, that she had spent so many years unable to comfort her own son that she now had a surfeit of maternal emotion.

Although, if she was honest, she didn't really feel maternal towards Mr Jones. Maybe she was just feeling sorry for the man, having to go through life with only one hand. Emma realised it was ridiculous to even entertain thoughts of consoling this man who barely knew her and didn't seem at all comfortable in her presence. She turned her gaze to the one solitary tree in front of the church and tried to think of something else.

Reverend Herman exited the church again, this time with a youth of about 17 or 18 years following him. The boy jumped up onto the wagon and took one end of the coffin, Mr Jones took the other end with his good hand and, with Henry's help and a lot of pushing back and forth that looked ungainly and made Emma fear that they and the coffin would end up in an undignified heap on the ground, they managed to unload their burden and begin carrying it towards the church.

The boy that Reverend Herman had brought out was off-hand about his task and, even with the use of two hands, he let his end of the coffin sway and bounce in a way that made Mr Jones wince several times while he struggled to hold up the other end one-handed, with Henry performing an odd little dance alongside, occasionally reaching out a hand to steady its progress. The Reverend trudged along behind and Emma followed at the back as they rounded the church and made their way to a freshly-dug grave set beside a few other plain wooden crosses.

Without any ceremony the boy dropped his end of the coffin into the grave, leaving Mr Jones little choice but to do the same. The sound of the wood hitting the hard earth below echoed for a moment and then the voice of Reverend Herman started up, intoning words that Emma didn't care to pay much attention to. She was too busy watching Mr Jones and his silent contemplation of the grave.

This really hadn't been the way she'd expected to spend her first day in Storybrooke. Of all the intimate moments she'd expected to share with a new husband, watching him bury his brother wasn't one of them. Although, strictly speaking, the husband she'd thought she'd have was the one being buried.

And now she was left feeling like an interloper into someone else's family. She'd had that feeling before, of course. Every time the orphanage had tried to place her with someone she'd made an attempt to adjust to a new family, a new way of life. Until, eventually, she'd figured out that it didn't work; none of them really wanted her. So she gave up trying to be what they wanted and simply worked hard to project as blank a canvas as possible, hoping that she would cause no offence.

She still did, of course. Sometimes you just simply couldn't win no matter how well you thought you knew the rules.

Emma watched Mr Jones and recognised that he was performing the same trick as she had often done. Certainly she could see the pain and grief cross his face as the Reverend began to speak, but, by the time he dropped a handful of earth onto the lid of the plain wooden coffin there was nothing in his dark, handsome features save a blank mask that did not show anything of his current state of mind. He might as well have been standing on any street corner rather than over his brother's grave.

Emma had been deeply interested in watching this process as it took place; it wasn't often she got to see it from the outside. She'd been so mesmerised that it took her a moment to notice that Mr Jones had turned his gaze in her direction and she realised that she had been caught out staring at him. There was a tense moment when it seemed to be a contest as to who would look away first, before Emma noticed that Henry was showing perhaps a little too much curiosity about the grave and she felt compelled to walk over and take his hand before he fell in.

"It's not like Aunt Regina's," Henry said, as Emma pulled him a little closer to her side. She wasn't entirely sure if he was talking about the coffin or the ceremony in general. Either way, he was correct. Regina's funeral had certainly been full of more pomp and circumstance.

"It's just…different. Out here," Emma murmured. It wasn't so much the location as, perhaps, the wealth of the person they were burying that made the difference, but Emma didn't like to put the idea in Henry's head that his circumstances had diminished on account of Regina's death. It irked Emma, and always had, that Regina had been the one to care for and nurture Henry when Emma wasn't able to, but she couldn't deny that without Regina in their lives, she and Henry would have been a lot worse off.

"I like it," Henry said, emphatically. "I'm happy we're here, Mama."

"Well. That's good." Emma returned Henry's smile and marvelled at how he'd managed to adapt so quickly to his entire world being turned upside down. But then she was often surprised at the things Henry did and the fact that someone she had birthed could be so different from herself; while Emma counted herself as adaptable, she was often far from cheerful about it. Maybe it might have been different if she had raised him alone, but Emma often felt like Henry was some kind of stranger who she was only just beginning to understand.

Still, she felt she understood him a little better than she did Mr Jones who was deep in conversation with the Reverend. "Mrs Swan?" he called over. "Are you ready?"

Emma took a deep breath and pasted on her best pleased-to-be-here face. "Yes," she called back, casting a quick glance at Henry, who squeezed her hand in reply. She hadn't realised he'd picked up on her nerves and she really hoped they weren't obvious to Mr Jones. The last thing she needed right now was to appear to be a reluctant bride. The whole enterprise seemed a precarious undertaking, held up only by the conviction of its participants that it would work out in the end. If either of them stopped clinging to this belief then the structure could crumble and fall in a moment.

Pulling Henry along with her, Emma walked silently back to the church behind Mr Jones and Reverend Herman. Inside the church it was gloomy and the pews and altar were bare of decoration. Without preamble Reverend Herman took his place at the front of the church and opened the Bible in his hands.

The ceremony was brief and to the point and, at times, uncomfortable. When the Reverend asked them to join hands, Emma automatically held out both of hers only to face an embarrassing pause as Mr Jones kept his bad hand resolutely behind his back and, before she had time to withdraw one hand to help him save face, Emma found both of her hands scooped up by his one good hand.

Of course Mr Jones had no ring so Emma simply removed the plain band she had bought herself many years before and allowed him to replace it when the Reverend instructed. The kiss was cursory and on the cheek, and hardly spoke of romance and flourishing love. The only witnesses were Henry, the boy who had helped carry the coffin, and a young girl wearing an apron and carrying a broom, and none of them seemed to care about the lack of romance.

Henry gave Emma an awkward hug around her waist when she moved to sign the register and he looked as though he wanted to say something to Mr Jones as well, but, in the end, he merely watched as the man walked past him.

In what seemed like an obscenely short time Emma found herself back outside the church, now a married woman. She looked to Mr Jones for direction as to what was to occur next, and found him frowning. "That was…perfunctory," he volunteered, sounding a little puzzled and scratching behind his ear as he spoke.

"He did seem to have…other pressing matters to attend to," Emma agreed.

"Aye. I can't say as I'd be surprised if we found out it wasn't valid," Mr Jones ventured, and Emma bit her lip and wondered if he knew something she didn't. She hadn't come all this way to be tricked into a sham marriage.

She realised, too late, that Mr Jones had been smiling, although the jovial expression melted away quickly as he took in her frown. "I just meant…there was hardly time for God to even show up, let alone…anyway." He broke off and walked towards the wagon again.

"Do we get to see your house now, Mr Jones?" Henry asked, trotting alongside him almost as a puppy would.

Mr Jones turned back to Emma. "Look, I'm not sure what impression Liam gave you in those letters he wrote, but…well, it's not much."

"I'm sure it will be fine, Mr Jones," Emma said, sounding as firm and pleasant as she could in an attempt to wipe away the memory of the previous embarrassment she'd felt.

Mr Jones didn't respond to that, he just looked at her for a long moment, which Emma found extremely disconcerting. She was used to being someone in the background, someone nobody cared about; the orphan child, the shop girl, the housekeeper gliding in the background of the parlour. Attempting to cover up her discomfort Emma blurted out "I'm used to making do."

Mr Jones frowned, but didn't say anything. He climbed back up on the wagon and Henry, this time, decided to take the position beside him. At least he was making inroads into friendship with Mr Jones, Emma thought, as Henry kept up a bright stream of chatter as they set off again. She felt like she'd done nothing but alienate the man since they'd met.

He was probably wishing, now, that he had managed to escape her at the train station. Emma cursed herself, inwardly, for her impetuousness in agreeing to the marriage.

For it was one thing to be an unwanted child; it was something altogether different, she suspected, to be an unwanted wife.


	4. Chapter 4

Emma remained silent for the half-hour's journey to their destination, contemplating the flat landscape they travelled through. Intermittently they passed other dwellings but no people. Everything out here was still and empty.

Emma found she rather liked that. She tuned back into the conversation between Henry and Mr Jones in time to hear Henry talking about his father. "He died, in a fire. Before I was born."

She caught Mr Jones' eye as he turned to look at her. "You've been alone a long time, then," he commented.

"But we've had each other," Emma murmured, looking fondly at Henry and hoping to deflect the line of questioning a little.

"And Aunt Regina!" Henry added.

"Your aunt?" Mr Jones asked.

"She died," Henry informed him. "I used to live with her, but all she left us was the tablecloth, not the house. So now we're here at your house."

Mr Jones didn't say anything to that but he looked decidedly less happy about Regina's bequest than Henry did at the prospect of his new home. Emma wondered, again, just exactly what Mr Jones thought of her, but it wasn't something she felt she could ask. He'd married her, hadn't he? And even if he was regretting it now, there was nothing to say he'd keep regretting it. Emma just had no idea what, exactly, she could do to ease his mind right then.

She'd have to fall back on her usual plan; carry on as though everything was going smoothly and hope that it was. Pretend that she couldn't tell that they were lying, that they didn't want her, that they'd never really wanted her. Pretend that it all meant nothing to her.

Eventually they turned towards a property which seemed to have a few more trees than some of the surrounding countryside. Mr Jones pulled the wagon alongside a small cabin surrounded by a few outbuildings. "This is it," he said, perhaps a little redundantly, before climbing down and walking to the back of the wagon.

Emma and Henry climbed down as well, and, between the three of them, they managed to get the baggage down and inside the cabin. The interior was a little bigger than Emma had supposed, but it was dark and it didn't seem particularly welcoming. Nor did its owner.

"I'll…go and see to the horses," Mr Jones said, from behind Emma. When she turned he'd disappeared back out the door they'd come in.

Henry was already exploring and Emma followed his lead. The main part of the cabin housed the free-standing, metal stove, a table and chairs and a small bed. A doorway led into another room with a slightly larger bed and a chest of drawers. Everything was bare but serviceable, she supposed. It would do.

Emma pulled her trunk and her bag into the bedroom and then unpinned her bonnet and removed her jacket, pulling a clean apron from the trunk and tying it on. She would give anything, right then, for a hot bath and time to just…sit. Sit and think through everything that had happened. But she didn't have the luxury of time. The day was drawing to a close and there were things to be done. After all, she'd come here to run a household and she wasn't going to make a poor show of that. Whatever other complaints Mr Jones might have about her, the fact she was lazy wasn't going to be one of them.

Back in the main room Henry had taken a seat at the table and was perusing his cowboy book. "Look, Mama!" he exclaimed. "There's a picture of a house just like this one, only it's getting attacked by Indians!"

"Oh, really?" Emma hoped she was treading the fine line between showing a reasonable amount of interest in the gruesome tales Henry liked to read and not encouraging him too much when he was gripped by the lurid details that seemed to be the drawcard of the book. It was one of the many things about motherhood that she hadn't quite been expecting when she'd come to take Henry back from Regina.

"Do you think there are any Indians out there?" Henry asked her, pointing in the direction of the still-open door.

"No." She was pretty firm on that point. Whatever troubles there were lurking around the place, Indians were unlikely to be the biggest one.

Intent on fixing some supper, Emma perused the shelves and small cupboard that were near the stove. There wasn't much save for a few bottles of liquor, a desultory row of dented tins and some vegetables, a little past their best. She was just going to have to make do.

Henry quizzed her endlessly about things she had no hope of answering, like whether there was an Indian village nearby, or how long it took to learn to ride a horse, or whether there'd be any shoot-outs in the main street of Storybrooke. She sincerely hoped that the correct answer to the last question was the 'no' she'd told Henry, but Emma did reflect that it would have been helpful to have Mr Jones by her side to actually answer a few of Henry's queries.

But there was no sign of Mr Jones. Eventually Emma found herself in need of water and, taking a small pail with a rusty handle, she ventured outside to see if any was available. Walking around the back of the cabin she spied Mr Jones standing in a barn contemplating…the ground. It was immensely obvious he was out here, avoiding her.

Emma felt a hollow space open up in the pit of her stomach.

"Water?" she called out, holding up the pail.

"Well's over there," Mr Jones replied, pointing to the other side of a small building made of sod. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared inside the barn.

Emma wondered, as she drew up the required water, whether all the conversations between herself and her new husband would be as short and to the point. The thought of weeks, months, years even, with a man who couldn't even stand the sight of her, or bear to hear her voice made her deeply sad.

Still, she clutched her pail, swiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and made sure her face was pleasant again, before she marched back into the cabin. There was no need for Henry to find out just how miserable she felt.

It wasn't his fault he had her for a mother.

Emma carried on making dinner, banging the few meagre pots and pans she'd found in the cabin in an effort to make herself feel better. Mr Jones, clearly, continued to lurk outside as though his house had been invaded by some kind of pest that he couldn't now rid himself of.

Only Henry deviated from what he'd been doing previously. Instead of looking at his book, he watched Emma, a little warily perhaps. She turned from the stove and caught his gaze. "Mama, you're not happy," he accused.

"No. I'm not…unhappy. I'm just a little…vexed with this stove. That's all." She slammed the door of the stove shut just to prove her point.

Henry tipped his head to one side and eyed her suspiciously. Emma realised that was exactly the way she sized people up when she was trying to figure out if they were telling her the truth or not. She had hoped that his years with Regina had prevented him from developing this particular trait, but it seemed that her hopes had been in vain.

"You don't like him," Henry said sadly.

"Who? The stove?" Emma knew that playing dumb wasn't going to stall Henry for long. He was a smart boy, after all. But she wasn't quite ready to admit the tumult currently going on within her mind.

"No. You know who I mean. Mr Jones." Henry sounded disappointed and it almost broke Emma's heart. The one thing she desperately wanted to avoid was disappointing Henry. And really he needn't be dragged into matters that were between adults, adults who had agreed to a marriage of convenience and were now hiding with the farm animals and regretting their choices. At least, that was how Emma justified pretending to Henry that everything was a lot better than it really was.

"I do. I do like him. He's, um…" she tried desperately to think of something positive to say about Mr Jones. Something that she wanted to share with Henry, anyway. "He seems to cope quite well with only one hand," she finished, just as the person she was speaking about entered the house.

Emma's eyes met his over Henry's head, and she immediately looked away, feeling as though he was silently accusing her of some kind of betrayal. She could understand his lack of a hand being a subject he didn't necessarily want to bring up, but it was a little hard to ignore completely.

"Supper won't be much longer," Emma told the stove, hoping that the message would somehow get through to Mr Jones too.

When he gave no verbal indication that he had, indeed, overheard her speaking to the stove, Emma snuck a glance in his direction. He was still standing awkwardly by the door watching both her and Henry.

Perhaps, she thought, she just needed to make it more obvious what was happening. "Henry? Can you set the table, please?"

"Yes, Mama." Henry closed his book and stood up. "What should I do with these?" he gestured to a couple of bottles that were on the table.

"I'll take those, lad" Mr Jones said, swiping them both up in one hand and disappearing out the door again.

Henry turned and looked at Emma. "Is he coming back?"

Emma was tempted to shrug and say she couldn't possibly know what was going on in the man's mind and the fact he'd run off with his alcohol was simply not a good indication of how the evening was going to progress. But she refrained, and, instead, took a deep breath and said "I think he will be. Let's get the table set."

It was easier said than done. Emma hadn't realised there was such a dearth of usable items in the cabin. They located two tin plates, a small china bowl, one tin mug, a jar, two spoons, two knives and a solitary fork. Clearly, dinner had not been set for more than two people for a while, perhaps ever. Henry spent far more time organising the items on the table than was probably warranted, but Emma left him alone. She might often feel awkward around him, but she did recognise his need to have his world orderly and under his control, probably because she often felt the same way herself.

When the food itself was on the table, Emma pondered whether they should wait for Mr Jones, go in search of him, or simply start eating. She didn't really know what the protocol was; it was her first night married to the man after all.

In the end she sank into a chair next to Henry and motioned for him to say grace. It wasn't something that Emma herself particularly thought necessary, but Regina had instilled a slew of good manners into Henry during his years with her and it seemed a shame to let those slide now.

While Henry was giving thanks to God for the dinner that Emma had managed to scrape together against all odds, Mr Jones slunk back into the house. For a long moment he stood and looked at Emma and she wondered if perhaps she'd sat in his chair or committed some other unnamed offence and she felt the anger rising in her again because, for goodness' sake, how was she supposed to know what any of his expectations were if he was hiding from her all the time?

But then she pushed the anger away as there was simply no point in worrying about how he wanted things done when it was patently clear he didn't want her, and she had no idea how to change that fact. She did, however, suspect that it wasn't the chair she chose to sit in that would make a difference.

Mr Jones eventually sat in a chair opposite Emma and she ducked her head down, avoiding his gaze. He followed suit, probably belatedly attempting to show some respect as the prayers were taking place. Emma found herself curious about the man's religion. She knew, from Liam's letters, if not from the faint accent he carried, that Killian Jones was from Ireland, originally. But that was the sum total of her knowledge. It was entirely possible that some of his discomfort at the church that afternoon had been due to the fact he felt he was betraying some deep-set belief.

She didn't ask him, of course. Personal questions seemed something far beyond the kind of relationship she currently had with the man sitting opposite her.

"Thank you. For…the food," Mr Jones said, haltingly, as Henry finished.

"Oh…it's nothing. Just…" Emma stopped herself. It was thin, watery, vegetable broth and something akin to cornbread, made with the ingredients she'd managed to find. It didn't look all that appealing and she was tempted to shrug it off as a poor attempt at a supper. But the ingredients had been provided by her new husband and, if there was anything she'd learnt by being an orphaned child, it's that people expected gratitude. Every family who'd ever taken her in, however briefly, had expected…or demanded, rather, some acknowledgement that what they gave her was far superior to anything she'd have in the orphanage.

You simply couldn't enter someone's home and begin to imply they had failed at providing the necessities. Not if you wanted your stay to be pleasant.

"It's just something I put together," Emma finally finished, but her words were lost. Henry and Mr Jones were already eating, Henry mostly looking like he was doing so out of politeness, every couple of bites punctuated by a smile in his mother's direction, and Mr Jones as though he hadn't eaten in days. His bad arm was hidden in his lap so his other hand was doing the double duty of spooning in the broth and picking up pieces of the cornbread.

Emma almost forgot to eat herself, but eventually she dipped the fork she was using into the small bowl and attempted to extract some of the vegetables. Henry watched her awkwardness with a growing smile. "We couldn't find all the cutlery," he said, turning to Mr Jones. Emma wanted to reach forward and hush him, because he was, quite clearly, breaking the no-complaints rule, but she had no way to do it surreptitiously.

"It's fine," she said, with a small shrug, at the same time as Mr Jones turned to Henry and asked "Cutlery?"

"Yes, sir. The Knives and forks and things. There's only two of everything. Except the forks. Aunt Regina had lots, but it took forever to polish it."

"Well. Forks are a bit wasted on me now, lad. And there were only two of us here. Until…" Mr Jones trailed off, before pulling off another piece of cornbread and eating it with a studied concentration.

Emma watched as Henry's gaze moved from Mr Jones, back to herself. It was clear that, as the only other adult in the room, Henry expected that Emma would know the right thing to say in the situation. But she had no idea what to say, and offering comfort was not her specialty. Obviously Henry hadn't spent enough time in her presence to realise that.

It made her sad that one day he would.

Looking away from Henry she studied her own bowl of food intently, although she found the contents a lot less interesting than Mr Jones did. She was having difficulty summoning up much of an appetite despite the late hour and the fact her previous meals that day had only consisted of the sandwiches Miss Blanchard had carefully packed for the train journey.

And then Henry broke the silence, his voice sounding far more solemn than it had when discussing the cutlery. "I'm sorry that you lost your brother, Mr Jones." Emma's eyes shot back up to Henry, who was looking pensive as he no doubt hoped he'd found the right words to express what he felt.

Mr Jones just shrugged and said "Aye. It is what it is, lad," before he went back to eating. Emma wasn't sure what to do about either of them. One was so eager to please the man he desperately wanted to be, if not his father, then some other significant person in his life. The other just…might as well have been made of stone.

Were family meals always this difficult? Emma tried to recall the times she'd eaten with the families who'd taken her in, and couldn't remember ever encountering quite this situation. But then she'd never been in the position of feeling responsible for setting the tone and smoothing over ruffled feathers. She'd been the outsider, the one on the edges of the grouping who hoped that she could blend in seamlessly.

Truth be told, she didn't feel all that different right then, either.

They finished their meal in silence, Mr Jones eating seconds with relish, which made Emma ponder the question of how well he'd been managing by himself. His reasons for taking her on quite so readily became apparent; he didn't need a wife, as much as he clearly needed a serving girl.

But she was fooling herself if she ever thought this arrangement was anything more than that, and she knew it. Even if the groom had been her original intended she had been brought here simply to be a glorified housekeeper.

She just wished that she didn't care so much that it was the case. She should be immune to it by now, this longing to be wanted by someone. It was a feeling she did her best to bury deep inside her heart.

And, anyway, Henry wanted her. That mattered to her a great deal.

As soon as he had finished, Mr Jones stood up and looked as though he was going to escape out the door again. "Mr Jones?" Emma called, and he turned to her with a frown, as though he was astonished that she was addressing him.

"Aye?"

"Perhaps tomorrow we might venture back into town for…some supplies?" Emma didn't want to spell out just how bereft the larder here was, but, having created one supper from what was available, she didn't relish the idea of repeating the exercise the next day.

"I suppose, lass," Mr Jones replied, and then he was out the door again.

When supper was cleared away, Emma helped a very weary Henry get ready for the night, tucking him into the small bed in the corner of the room. He had dutifully recited his prayers, adding in a wish for God to look after Mr Jones, as well as his mother, and to look after Mr Jones' brother in heaven.

There was no sign of Mr Jones however, and when Henry's breath evened out to gentle snores Emma, fearing that the oil in the lamp would run low and she would be left searching out candles in a strange house, moved in to the back bedroom. The one she assumed she would be sharing with her husband.

She regarded the lumpy, bare bed a little dolefully, before pulling some linens out of her trunk and beginning to make it up. She didn't want to dwell on the fact that it had probably been stripped after being the last resting place of Liam Jones, but that only meant that her mind wandered directly to something she really didn't want to spend a lot of time thinking about; her wedding night.

Keeping her hands busy, Emma made the bed with the linens she'd brought, topped with a quilt she'd sewn during the long nights in her room at Dr Hopper's. Task completed, she had nothing left but to go back to her own thoughts.

It wasn't that Emma was a blushing virgin of course, and she knew that her new husband wasn't going to expect anything from her that other men hadn't asked for over the years. From time to time, she'd even said yes to them if she felt inclined. Or if she felt she didn't have much of a choice.

So it wasn't the act itself that filled her with trepidation as much as the idea of sharing a bed with someone. She'd never really slept with a man before and to her it seemed more intimate than the act of copulation ever could. Giving herself over to someone, trusting them enough to see her when she was vulnerable, that scared her more than she could say.

Especially when this was it. Forever. There was no changing the way things had turned out now and for better, or for worse, she was married to the man she'd share this bed with.

Ignoring the thudding of her heart in her chest, Emma got ready for bed, changing into her nightgown and taking down and re-braiding her hair. Mr Jones didn't appear, however, and she wondered where he was. She didn't know much about farming but she would venture that there were only so many tasks he had to complete, especially in the dark.

Surely he could only avoid her for so long?

Unsure of what to do to pass the time she sat on the edge of the bed and fretted about how much longer the lamp would last. She took her hair out of its braid, thinking that perhaps wearing it loose might be best under the circumstances.

Emma raked her fingers through the blonde waves that reached past her shoulder blades and immediately realised her decision had been a silly one. It was ridiculous to pretend that she was some kind of virginal girl, eager to spend the first night in the arms of her lover.

It was something she might have done a long time ago, thinking she was in love with a man who'd only let her down. Playing at being his wife.

She wasn't that girl anymore.

It was better to begin as she meant to go on, she reasoned. Emma reached into her case for her hairbrush and began dragging it through her hair again, in preparation to braid it once more. And then the door opened and Mr Jones appeared. He hovered in the doorway and, for a moment, she thought that he might very well turn around and leave again. But he stood a little straighter, as though he'd made a decision, and took another step into the room, closer to where she was sitting on the bed.

Emma suddenly wished she wasn't sitting down at this exact moment. Mr Jones standing so close to her, almost looming over her, and the fact she was only in her nightgown and a shawl made her feel vulnerable. And she disliked that feeling immensely.

"You're just in time," she murmured. "The lamp's almost out."

Mr Jones frowned at her, and she wondered what on earth she'd done this time. "There…I think there's a candle…" Mr Jones said, looking around.

"We could just…I suppose we won't…need anything…in bed," Emma stammered, trying to find a way to tell him to just get it over with. She was desperate to quell the rising tide of anxiety, but feared that nothing would as long as he seemed determined to prolong this awkward moment for as long as possible.

Looking at Mr Jones, at his eyes, which looked almost black in the dim light, at the way he searched her face didn't make Emma feel any more at ease than when she focussed on some other point. She dropped her eyes lower, noting that he kept his left arm hidden behind his back. Still. She wasn't sure why, but it hurt her that he didn't trust her enough to just keep it out in the open.

"I'm grateful, for the fact you agreed to stay," he said suddenly, in a low, almost hoarse voice. "But I'll not make you share my bed."

Emma opened her mouth to try to refute his assumption that his presence would be unwelcome, mostly out of a misplaced politeness, but he cut her off, his voice sounding a little more even now. "It's clear to me that whatever reasons you had for staying, it wasn't for the pleasure of my company."

Emma bit her lip and looked down at the hairbrush that she now held idly in her lap. He thought she was some kind of opportunist. And he didn't really want her.

Mr Jones kept speaking, despite Emma's inability to look him in the eye. "I won't force anything on you. I'm not that sort of man."

Emma nodded. She supposed that something.

"Where will you sleep?" she asked, as he turned to leave again.

Mr Jones nodded at the wall behind them. "Out there. In the sod hut. That's always been mine, anyway." He started to walk away. "Goodnight, Mrs Swan," she heard as he stepped into the darkness.

"It's Jones now," she said, to the sound of his footsteps as they moved through the other room. But there was no reply from Mr Jones.

Emma sighed, and put the hairbrush on the chest by the wall before turning off the lamp and climbing into the slightly chilly bed. She should be happy to have been spared an awkward encounter with a man she'd only met that afternoon. She should be comfortable sleeping by herself, without another body jammed up against her. She should be pleased she'd got through her first day here, and that Henry seemed to be settling in.

But she didn't feel any of those things. She felt alone, and her familiarity with that feeling brought no comfort to her.

Sleep was a long time coming.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Walking out the door to the cabin was almost painful. The desire to return to the bedroom where he'd left Mrs Swan was so strong that it took every ounce of Killian Jones' resolve not to give in and turn around.

In his head a nagging, none-too-pleasant voice kept reminding him that she was his now. She'd married him. He could take her and he'd have every right in the world to do so. After all, they'd said their vows to that poor excuse for a minister and no one could blame him for expecting to enjoy his wedding night.

It wasn't even like she'd said no. She'd barely said anything.

She'd just looked at him when he'd entered that bedroom, and the expression she'd worn had been that of a cornered animal which had realised it had nowhere else to run. Not to mention the wary glance at his arm when he came closer. It wasn't like he didn't try to keep it out of view, but, despite his best efforts, it was all anyone focused on.

He pushed open the door of the sod hut and walked into the inky blackness. There was a candle stub on the small box in the corner which he endeavoured to light, and then he kicked off his boots and sat down heavily on the small, hard bed.

Killian brought his left arm across his body and began to undo the straps that held the leather brace. It wasn't the easiest thing to do one-handed, but nothing was. He'd learnt that pretty quickly.

With the brace removed he massaged the skin that had been trapped underneath and then, slowly, almost as though he didn't want to acknowledge it any more than anyone else did, he ran his hand over the stump.

It didn't matter how many times he did it; it never got any better, the feeling of knowing what was missing, what used to be there. It felt wrong and alien and, God, he wasn't used to it even now. Maybe he never would be.

No wonder she didn't want him; crippled and maimed as he was.

After slipping off his braces and undoing his belt, Killian stood up to shuck his pants, and remove his shirt, before sitting back heavily on the bed again. He blew out the candle and lay down and tried not to dwell on how Mrs Swan had looked while brushing her hair, how it had fanned around her face and her pink lips had pressed together and the shawl had slipped off a shoulder and…

The ache in his loins was palpable. In an effort to try to calm down he reasoned that if Liam were still alive then he wouldn't be stuck with the image that was Mrs Swan alone in the bed, but instead Liam would be in there with her. That would only serve to conjure up another, far less pleasing, set of images.

And the fact that he was a tiny bit glad that Liam isn't there made him feel like a traitor, and only served to prove that he's far less of a man than Liam was, despite the fact that he'd gallantly not forced the lovely Mrs Swan to accept him into her bed.

 _Emma_ , he thought.  _Her name is Emma_.

It was better to think of her as Mrs Swan, though. Mrs Jones was the woman his brother was to marry and Emma…Emma is someone he doesn't deserve. Mrs Swan is a far better choice.

He wished he could make her happy, but he feared that he never will and by now the ache in his heart matched the ache lower down and it took a long time and the rest of the bottle of whiskey that he had taken out of the hands of the boy and stashed beside the bed earlier before he finally found any peace.

Killian woke to the sound of a boy's voice and, for a moment while his brain was still dulled by sleep and the effects of the previous night's drink, he believed that he was still a child, and that it's Liam he heard.

But it only took a moment for him to realise that it was Henry's voice. And that he misses Liam dreadfully and he'd gladly give up any claim on Mrs Swan if he could have his brother back. Without Liam here to anchor him he felt adrift and very much alone.

He couldn't make out the conversation going on outside the hut, but he got up and dressed as quickly as he was able, making sure that the hook was in place before he stepped outside to greet the farm's new occupants. The hook makes people uncomfortable, but the stump where his hand used to be is surely worse.

He found them standing outside the chicken coop, with the sun just daring to peek up over the horizon. Killian thought that Mrs Swan looked younger somehow this morning, less stiff and more girlish, her hair escaping its confines around her head and tarnished a brilliant gold by the early-morning rays.

She was laughing at something Henry had said and it was clear to him how much she loved the boy. Killian felt more than a little ashamed for wanting her so badly for himself. It was infinitely better that he just let the boy enjoy being alone with his mother.

It isn't like he doesn't remember what it's like to lose one.

Mrs Swan's laughter stopped when they realised he'd appeared, and he felt like an unwelcome intruder into their family moment. He'd had the same problem since the three of them had first arrived at the farm. He knew, of course, that the reason Liam had wanted a wife was so that someone would run the household, but she had just…taken over, so quickly. And all of a sudden the house was hers and he wasn't sure how to enter it anymore and he certainly didn't think she particularly wanted him there, anyway, so he just stayed away, as much as he could.

He didn't really think he'd been missed.

It was Henry who greeted him. "Good morning, Mr Jones. We're off to see if there are any eggs," he announced. "Will there be any eggs?"

"Perhaps."

"Do they mind? I asked Mama, but she laughed and I don't know if they mind." Killian didn't really understand what it was that Henry was asking him, so he looked over to Mrs Swan for confirmation. The smile had faded from her face and she was biting her lip, a little, and looking concerned, which only served to confirm Killian's thoughts that she didn't like the fact he'd interrupted the happy moment she was sharing with her son.

It was quite clear to Killian where he came in the family pecking order. Not that they were a family, of course. His family were all dead now and it was just him, on a farm, with a woman and her son.

And there was simply no cosy word to sum up that situation.

"I…what?" he asked, fighting the urge to just walk away from an encounter that was uncomfortable in the extreme.

Henry sighed and gave Killian the same look that Liam used to when he was frustrated because Killian just wouldn't understand something. Somehow, though, the notion that someone still cared if he was keeping up with the conversation managed to alleviate a little of the grief he felt at losing Liam. "The chickens," Henry said, slowly. "Will they mind if we take their eggs?"

The question seemed an absurd one to Killian who, if pressed, would admit to the fact that he'd never in his life pondered the feelings of chickens. "No. It's…they're chickens, lad."

Henry looked a little pensive still. "I just thought…no one likes to give up their children." He turned back to look at his mother and Killian saw something flash across her face that looked a lot like guilt and pain and he realised there was some history there, something they hadn't shared with him.

He wanted to ask her, but decided he wouldn't in front of the boy. And not when it made her so clearly uncomfortable. "Come on, Henry!" she called to him, holding an arm out. "Let's go and see." Without looking back she led Henry to the chicken coop and Killian made a valiant attempt to fasten the shirt buttons he'd neglected to do up before leaving the hut. He'd been anxious to see if they needed him and, well, he only had one hand.

That was the story of his bloody life now.

Henry emerged from the chicken coop while Killian was still struggling with his shirt. "We got two!" he announced, sounding as though the joy of actually finding some eggs had wiped away his earlier concern that he was, in fact, stealing chicks out from under the beaks of the hens.

"Very good, lad," he said, finally managing the last button. He was about to walk off when Mrs Swan called out to him. "Uh, Mr Jones?"

He nodded, and she took a few paces towards him and then stopped, abruptly, as though she'd met some kind of invisible line that she couldn't possibly cross. It wasn't like he wasn't used to people being wary of him, of keeping away from him, but it still hurt. He had thought, well, hoped perhaps, that he'd earned some show of…not fondness, but perhaps some goodwill or a sign of friendship from Mrs Swan after he'd left her alone the night before. Clearly, it wasn't to be.

She was just going to treat him like everyone else did. Fine. It probably made things easier that way.

"Perhaps you have some other chores Henry could do?" she suggested, giving him what was clearly an attempt at a sweet smile. It didn't reach her eyes, however, which were fixed on a point far past his head.

"Can you milk a cow?" he asked the boy.

"No, sir. But I could…can I learn?" Henry asked, hopefully.

"Come with me." Killian hoped that he wasn't going to be bombarded with a stream of questions regarding the thoughts of cows on the purloining of their milk, but Henry was so interested in the whole process that he didn't seem worried this time that there might be retribution.

Killian still had to warn him not to get himself kicked by one of the cows. Snow White, especially, could get a little hard to handle if she thought you were sneaking up on her.

It took a few attempts, but Henry managed to get the hand movements down. Of course, having two hands helped immensely, and Killian was glad that he might be spared the long and painful process of doing this one-handed from now on.

Perhaps it wasn't the mother he should be thankful for, but the boy. Liam had been right when he'd picked her. And Henry seemed so genuinely happy to be helping that it took more than a little of the sting out of the fact that the replacement for his missing left hand was a half-grown boy.

It was easier, anyway, to spend time on his own with Henry. He'd spent so long being the younger brother to Liam that he understood how this relationship worked. He answered Henry's questions, tried to keep him from injuring himself or the animals, and made sure at least some work got done in the process. He'd had a good role model for this, and he felt that by just pretending that he was Liam, at least a little, he could get through.

He didn't have any kind of idea how to be a husband. The role models for that were thin on the ground. He almost wished he'd had a chance to observe how Liam dealt with Mrs Swan. At least then he might have had something he could copy.

When they were done he gave the pail of milk to Henry. "You better take that inside to your mother."

Henry's brow creased and his resemblance to Mrs Swan grew more marked. "You're not coming to breakfast?"

Killian wanted to, he had enjoyed having someone cook him supper the night before, even though she'd waved it away. He could pretend that she was doing it because she genuinely cared for him, after all, and not just because he was reaping the benefit of the fact she had to feed her son. But he was still nervous around the family unit that was Henry and Mrs Swan and unsure how to proceed.

It was only breakfast, he supposed. Breakfast was a start. Maybe he could pretend to be someone else long enough to get through one meal. "Aye. I'll be there shortly."

Henry shuffled off slowly, carrying the pail and very clearly trying not to spill any. Killian went into the barn to try to find something else that needed doing. He'd spent a lot of time in here during the previous afternoon and he was running out of things he could do. He wondered if his days were going to be like this from now on; spent in hiding in, what used to be, his own home.

Maybe it was never really home, but it was the future. At least it was when Liam described it to him, outlined all the plans he had, convinced Killian that they needed to put down some roots and have something to pass on when they died.

Only Liam died too soon and now he was responsible for the whole damn thing and hiding in the barn to boot. He was so ill-equipped to be part of any kind of family that he might as well live out here with the cows and the chickens.

Killian sighed and decided that there was nothing for it but to go into the cabin and just get it over with. He walked around the side of the house and in the door and tried to pretend he wasn't hoping that she'd give him a real smile this time, the kind she gave Henry.

But he didn't get anything of the sort. In fact she was so intent on some kind of silent battle with the stove that she barely noticed him at all as he entered the place. He felt he should be glad that she wasn't pretending to like him more than she did, or that she wasn't throwing worried half-glances at his hook. But he wasn't glad, he was annoyed.

It was an unreasonable feeling and he knew that. His own response to the whole situation had been to keep out of her way and pretend he wasn't really there, how could he then blame her for trying to keep up the pretence? But he wanted something from her, some word or glance that said she was his…what? Friend? He wasn't sure. But he was unsatisfied all the same and he didn't think that breakfast was going to fix that.

If breakfast came.

"Mr Jones? Sir? I was telling Mama," Henry said, as Killian sat down. "That the white cow is called Snow White, but the other doesn't have a name. Why doesn't it have a name?"

Killian shrugged. "It didn't come with a name."

"We should call it….um, Red? So they both have colour names?" Henry looked at Killian hopefully.

"If you want, lad." He doubted the cow cared one way or the other, but it seemed to make Henry happy that both the cows had a name now.

Mrs Swan must have resolved her differences with the stove as she appeared beside the table looking flushed and a little out of sorts. "It's ready," she announced, and she placed a hard-boiled egg in front of each of them.

Taking a seat opposite him, the same chair she'd occupied the night before, she continued. "I attempted coffee, but it did not work and there wasn't much there anyway." She turned to Henry. "Eat up."

Henry was peeling the shell of his egg and Killian was about to do the same when it occurred to him. There were only two eggs. "You're not eating?" he asked her.

"I, um…" Her face scrunched up a little, perhaps trying to find a plausible lie. "I'll have something in a little while." That was a less than plausible lie, because he wasn't sure there was anything else, save the milk.

"You should have this," he said, pushing the egg on its plate towards her.

"Oh. No." Mrs Swan waved it away with her hand. "I think you need it more than me."

He took it back but the tight feeling in his chest remained. He wasn't used to having to worry about other people and whether they had enough to eat. Liam had looked after him for many years and, as adults, they'd shared whatever they had between them. This odd little demonstration of self-sacrifice made Killian worried. What was Mrs Swan doing?

"You know," she began, staring at her hands which were clasped on the table. "I don't think I really expressed just how grateful I am for all you've done for us."

Killian concentrated on trying to peel the egg one-handed. His first response to that kind of statement was one of disbelief. She couldn't possibly be grateful for being shackled to a man who had difficulty with a bloody egg.

"I should have said. Last night," she continued. "What it meant to us…to me. Especially to me."

It dawned on him then, what she was trying to say. She was grateful that she didn't have to share his bed, relieved to be spared the burden of trying to pretend she wanted to be his wife. And his reward was a hard-boiled egg.

"Aye," was all he managed to say in response. He ate his egg in silence, counting down the seconds until he could leave the cabin again. Whatever happened, he didn't want to look at her, to see the sadness in her eyes, know that she was so close and yet so far away.

He really did wish he'd just left her at the train station now. He wouldn't have to suffer through this bloody pretence, then. He'd still be alone, and alone suited him fine.

Henry spoke up. "I'm happy too, Mr Jones," he announced, and it took all of Killian's resolve not to correct him because his mother had clearly said grateful, not happy, and those were two entirely different things.

Instead he just swallowed the last of his egg and said "I'm grateful too. For the help about the place. I'll walk you around today and then tomorrow we'll be out all day." There, he was making the best of the situation, using the help she'd so generously provided for him. It was what Liam would have wanted.

He snuck a glance at Mrs Swan, who looked less than happy, however. And he didn't have a bloody clue why.

He waited while she seemed to consider her response. "I think that tomorrow I might take Henry to get settled into school," she said, in the end. "We met the new school mistress on the train, and she is eager to meet all her pupils."

That at least cleared up who the other woman who'd pranced off with Nolan and Gold was, but for some reason, he felt she was being more than a little unreasonable.

"Schooling's not much use if you're a farmer, lass." He looked at her across the table, not breaking eye contact, the challenge unmistakeable. She'd brought her son here so he could be a farmer's boy, learn the ropes, and work the farm and, no doubt, one day inherit the bloody thing. It was the same deal, whether it was him sitting across the table from her, or Liam.

He didn't understand why she suddenly wanted to be so difficult. So much for bloody gratitude; clearly it only extended so far.

"I think school's important whatever you do," Mrs Swan said, her green eyes flashing a little. "And I have no intention of denying Henry the chance to make something of himself."

"So he doesn't end up like me?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Mrs Swan looked taken aback at the vehemence with which he'd questioned her. He couldn't help but feel a little glad at that. She deserved it. She wasn't keeping any of the bargains she'd made and he couldn't do anything about it now without looking like a bad husband. She'd tricked him, and if feeling his anger was the price for that, she could take it.

"No. I…I don't even know you," she hissed, and her words cut right through him. Didn't want to know him, was the clear implication. "But you have to understand, Henry means the world to me.  _I'm_  his mother, and I'll decide what's best for him."

She looked at him fiercely, her brow furrowed and her jaw set and something in him snapped. Yes, she was his mother and he was nothing to her. Not even someone she knew. They weren't a family, they weren't anything. Never mind that there wasn't a cosy word for this grouping, there wasn't any bloody word for it because no one in their right mind would want to be a part of it.

He should never have married the bloody, infuriating woman.

He could feel the anger rising in him, his vision getting black around the edges, but he didn't care. She was Henry's mother; well at least he knew how things were going to go. He stood up and leaned across the table, placing his good hand and his hook right in front of her. "You're a bloody stubborn lass," he spat out.

And then he saw it. And it was the worst thing he'd ever seen in his life. Her eyes lost their fire and she just looked scared. Scared he was going to beat her. Or worse.

It was an expression he recognised. Every time his father lost his temper in a great roar of indignation he'd see his mother keep her chin up but her eyes told a different story. She was afraid of his father, just as Mrs Swan was afraid of him now.

And then, in an even more devastating moment, he watched as Mrs Swan's eyes slid slowly towards Henry, still seated at the end of the table, and back to him as if she was silently acquiescing to taking what was coming to her but asking that he not beat her in front of her son.

He's seen that look before too and it merely confirmed the suspicions he'd held for most of his life. He wasn't fit to be anyone's husband or father; he was too like his own. He didn't deserve this, any of this.

Killian wished the ground would open up and swallow him in that moment. He didn't know how to take it back, how to back out of the situation, how to tell her he wasn't that kind of man.

It didn't matter now. He doubted he'd change her opinion anytime soon. The fire went out of him and he conceded defeat.

Back to the barn, he supposed, to lick his wounds.

He sighed and moved to straighten up, keeping his gaze steadily on the table. He couldn't bear to look at her again, to see the hurt in her eyes. And he couldn't bear to see what Henry thought of him now.

He'd ruined everything, and they hadn't even been here for a full day.

But then he felt her hand, tentatively, touch the back of his good one. He risked a glance over at her and the fear, well, most of it, seemed to have left. There was something else now, some kind of resolve. He couldn't be sure, and he certainly didn't know what she'd resolved to feel about him.

He sincerely hoped it wasn't only pity she felt. The kind of pity you might show to a wounded but still dangerous animal just before you shot it.

It probably wasn't too late for an annulment, after all.

"If the issue is that you need some help around the farm, then I'll be here," she said.

"You?"

"Yes. I'll help out."

"The farm…and the house?" He wasn't quite sure what she was offering.

Mrs Swan gave him a small, rueful smile. "I'm not afraid of hard work, Mr Jones. I came here so we could have a better life, and I'm willing to do what I need to do to ensure that. Henry needs his schooling, at least for a few more years. But I can be just as useful."

"But you're…" He stopped himself before he said woman. The trouble was that he didn't know anything about women. Not really. His mother was a distant memory, his sister hadn't survived more than three days, and the only woman he kept company with were hardly likely to be found in a field. He didn't want to doubt her capacity for hard work but he wasn't sure she knew what she was suggesting.

Well. She'd learn soon enough. "Fine," he said, straightening all the way up. "You're here now. You might as well be of some use."

He couldn't help but notice the hurt look that crossed her face. She thought he was referring to the previous night. Well, he couldn't do much about that. There wasn't anything that would change the matter unless she suddenly decided she did want him.

And he guessed it would be a cold day in hell before that happened.

"I think I can be very useful," Mrs Swan said, trying valiantly to raise any sort of a smile. "Tomorrow, if it's fine, I'll do some laundry and you must give me any mending you have…"

"I have none," he said, a little too vehemently, and a crease appeared between her brows, but she didn't openly question his reaction, instead she carried on. "And, of course, today we need to venture out for supplies." There wasn't any hint of a question in her voice.

"Aye," he said, with a certain weary resignation. It seemed like no matter what he did or said, she would get her own way. "We'll leave in an hour."

"Excellent. We'll be ready, won't we Henry?"

Killian didn't wait to hear the boy's response; he left the house and was back out in the bright sunshine of the yard before Henry had even opened his mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

Emma took a deep breath and tried to ignore the pounding of her heart in her chest. She was ashamed of how scared she'd felt, of the way she'd frozen as soon as he raised his voice to her. Her reaction made her feel weak and alone, just as she had every time it had happened before.

She'd hoped - she'd hoped very hard - that when she came here to Storybrooke she wasn't going to be met with a husband who was like all the people who'd run the orphanages she'd lived in, or the people who'd taken her into their homes and then given her back. She'd wanted something better this time.

And now Emma just felt sad that it wasn't going to be the case. She'd do her best to be what Mr Jones wanted, of course she would. She'd try to work alongside him like she'd promised. But it was patently clear that he was unhappy with her and she was unlikely to wake up in the morning a whole different person.

Most of all she disliked feeling as though she'd disappointed Mr Jones. All because she wanted to be a good mother and put Henry first.

Emma turned to look at Henry, who, she suddenly realised, still hadn't answered her. He was looking more than a little worried and she stood up and walked over to him, putting her arms around his shoulders. "It's not you," she murmured.

"No…I just…I don't have to go to school, Mama."

"You do, Henry." Emma crouched down so she was eye-level with him. She hated he'd been dragged into the argument she'd had with Mr Jones. Hated that he'd had to see her scared and worried as the man they'd pinned their hopes on got angry with her.

Hated that she was going to ruin it here for the both of them.

But she wasn't going to back down on her decision about school. Her own schooling had been almost non-existent. Orphan girls were hardly well-educated. Until she'd arrived on Regina's doorstep Emma could really only write her own name and read a few words at best.

But Regina, and then Dr Hopper, had taught her to read and write and, while she was thankful they had bothered to take the time to do so, she wanted it to be different for Henry. He'd have the chance to do anything he wanted. Sure, she'd brought them here, to this farm, so they could have a better life. But Henry didn't have to stay on the farm. When he was older he could go anywhere, be whatever he wanted. She'd hate it, but she'd wave him off and be happy for him.

She just wasn't going to picture that scene for too long. Not just because it would mean losing Henry, but because it would mean she'd still be here, alone, with Mr Jones.

It was not a fate she was looking forward to.

"Remember we told Miss Blanchard you'd be there?" Emma reminded Henry, hoping that he'd show more interest in spending time with the woman he'd liked so much on their journey here.

"I suppose we did," Henry replied, a little grudgingly.

"And she's counting on you to honour your word. So you'll go to school, and I'll…I'll help Mr Jones." Emma tried to sound a little happier about that prospect than she felt. Henry stared at her for a long while, clearly trying to read something in her face. She wondered what he was thinking, but he didn't seem inclined to share it, and she was too afraid to ask.

Whatever worries Henry had now, after witnessing the scene between herself and Mr Jones earlier, she very much doubted that she could ease them.

Emma straightened up and brushed her hands on her apron. "I think we should get ready now, Henry."

"Yes, Mama." He stood up from the table and moved towards his little corner of the room, hopefully searching for his hat.

Emma cleared away the breakfast things, glad that at least one of the members of her household was doing as she wished. Mr Jones had disappeared again and she wasn't sure if going in search of him was a particularly good idea.

She walked into her own room and regarded the bed which took up most of the space in there. It loomed larger than it had the previous day, or, at least it seemed that way to her. As a child she'd longed to have her own bed, her own room. Such a luxury could only be dreamed of. But now, as a married woman, it was simply testament to the fact that she'd once again arrived in a place where she wasn't wanted.

Still, she was nothing if not a survivor. Emma removed her apron and put her bonnet and jacket on. She walked back out into the main room, determined to find Mr Jones and set out on the journey back to town. She didn't expect to find him entering the house of his own accord.

There was a long, awkward moment while they stood on opposite sides of the table, each waiting for the other to break the silence.

"You're ready," Mr Jones said, in the end. Emma wasn't entirely certain if it was a question or a statement and so she hesitated for a moment to consider her response.

"Yes." It seemed the most straightforward thing she could say, although she was concerned that it took her longer than most people would think necessary to come up with a one-word answer. The new tension that filled the air between herself and Mr Jones was going to become very tiring if it continued on.

Her heart sank when she realised she had no reason to believe that it wouldn't.

"We'll leave then. Henry?" Mr Jones started out the door again. Henry began to follow him and then hesitated, looking back at his mother. Emma nodded encouragingly although inside, she was more than a little annoyed. First Mr Jones wanted to question her decision to send her son to school, now he was blatantly trying to win the boy's favour in an attempt to get him to take sides.

She'd wanted Henry to have a father, but not at the expense of her own relationship with him.

There was nothing else to do now, however, but follow them out to the wagon. She climbed up next to Henry, who had already taken the seat next to Mr Jones, and they set off.

Emma watched the landscape pass her by and idly listened to Henry pepper Mr Jones with questions about who lived where and what the farms grew and how much longer until they got to town and could he possibly hold the reins for just a little while? She was grateful that Mr Jones continued to answer the boy; after the events of that morning he could just as easily have decided to withdraw completely given her insistence that she was Henry's mother and, therefore, the only person who was allowed to make decisions about him. It wasn't exactly how she'd pictured her interactions with the man who would, from now on, be Henry's father.

But then, she realised, she had perhaps been holding onto a false view of what Henry having another parent would be like. When he'd lived with Regina she'd had to defer to the other woman's wishes for her son, and she had hated it. She'd told herself that it was necessary, that it meant that Henry had the stability she hadn't as a child. That she couldn't give him the things Regina could and so she would wait, and one day…one day they'd get to be a family.

Somehow, though, she'd thought that marrying and finding Henry a father would allow him a male presence…sometimes. Like a pet or a friend, the father she'd pictured would come and go and leave Emma to still enjoy having Henry all to herself.

She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that scenario was not going to play out, and she felt jealous. It was an awful realisation and it made her feel weak and childish. She didn't know how to negotiate with a husband, didn't know how to share her son. Most of all she didn't want to share, not again, and not something as precious to her as Henry. After a lifetime of not having anything to call her own, it was a lesson she hadn't perhaps learned.

And maybe she was too old to learn it now.

The road into Storybrooke could barely be called such and, after being bounced around in the wagon on the journey there, Emma felt a little physically knocked around as well as emotionally battered and bruised. She had thought that her childhood had prepared her for this situation, for marrying a man she'd never met and learning how to be his wife.

But she was coming to realise that this was a whole new experience and one which was, in reality, not in the least bit exciting. The adventure she'd been sold was a dud, to put it truthfully.

And she held little hope for the trip to the town's one general store being any more pleasant than anything else that had happened that morning. Mr Jones had jumped off the wagon almost before the horses stopped and spent a long time tying them up. Emma made her own way down and, while she was carefully stepping off the wagon, she caught Henry looking at her a little guiltily.

"I like speaking to Mr Jones," he confessed.

"And that's as it should be."

Emma watched Henry and his expression changed from slightly guilty to something more reproachful. She hoped he wasn't going to bring up the fact that she and Mr Jones were carefully not talking to each other. She was thankful that Regina had instilled a healthy dose of respect for his elders into Henry that would prevent such a comment. It was bad enough that she could feel Henry's silent rebuke, she didn't really need to hear the words.

And if it was anyone's fault, it was Mr Jones' anyway. If he couldn't control his temper then what could he expect?

Fearful of carrying on her silent conversation with Henry any longer, lest she give her feelings away, Emma glanced around the town. It looked much as it had on the previous day, a variety of buildings clustered alongside the one road. People milled about and, while some were obviously a little dustier and more hardened than those she was accustomed to viewing on the streets of Boston, they were mostly the same as people anywhere.

A few of them glanced her way and she wondered if they knew anything about her, or the circumstances of her arrival. She had somehow thought that it would be different in Storybrooke and that being introduced to people as Liam Jones' wife would smooth the path for her.

But that wasn't who she was. She was the woman who'd come to marry a dead man, and ended up marrying his brother instead. It made things complicated and she didn't enjoy complicated at all. Complicated just gave people a reason to ask you a dozen different questions and she did not much like the idea of being questioned by anyone.

This was supposed to be her new start and her old life would just melt away like it had never happened. Becoming the object of curiosity for a small town's citizens hadn't been a fate she'd wished for herself.

Emma decided that the best thing to do was to just let it wash over her. She stood up straighter and fixed her gaze on the train station, as though she was waiting for someone to arrive. She was definitely not going to stand around waiting for Mr Jones to remember he was married to her and actually pay her some attention.

It was just a little unfortunate that she was so consumed with not paying attention to the man, that, as a consequence, she failed to notice when he was trying to speak to her. "Pardon?" she asked, when she realised he was standing there.

Emma would have to add rudeness to her list of transgressions now, as Mr Jones looked less than pleased as she turned to look at him. His dark eyebrows were knitted together as he regarded her with what could only be described as a glare.

Well, two could play at that game. Emma lifted her chin slightly and kept her eyes locked on his, waiting for him to repeat his earlier remarks.

Two might have been able to play at that game but, clearly, three couldn't. Henry who was, Emma supposed, no doubt aware of the tension between the two of them suddenly burst out with a question. "Are we going into that store over there?"

Emma looked over to where Henry was pointing. Like most of the buildings the one he'd picked out was wooden, and the sign over the door simply read Lucas General Store. It seemed as good a guess as any.

She watched as Mr Jones nodded at Henry in confirmation and then turned to walk in the direction Henry had been pointing. Whatever he'd been trying to say to her, he clearly wasn't going to say it again.

Emma felt she should feel a little chastened by this, but, mostly, it just got her ire up. There just wasn't any way to express that feeling at the moment, other than by her continued silence.

She followed Mr Jones along the dusty road, Henry walking alongside her and still glancing worriedly at her a few times. It was hard for Emma not to bristle under his gaze; she'd at least tried sticking to the tried-and-true methods of being cheerful and grateful. It was hardly her fault they'd failed where Mr Jones was concerned.

There was clearly something wrong with the man if he didn't understand that she was trying.

The interior of the store was considerably more pleasant than the exterior. Every inch of the available space seemed packed with some kind of item for sale, and the variety of items was wide. Emma stopped worrying about Mr Jones for a moment and started feeling a little overwhelmed. The shopping trip had been, until now, shadowed by the icy relationship she could feel forming between herself and her new husband, but she suddenly realised that she had better come up with a plan for what they were buying. And fast.

Henry was momentarily distracted by a display of gardening tools and Emma tried to gather her thoughts. She should, of course, have been used to shopping for a household, but this felt rather different to anything she'd done in Dr Hopper's employ. For one thing, she was suddenly in charge of purchasing items when she had no idea of what budget she was working to.

There wasn't much food at the farm, after all, and she had no way of knowing if that was from negligence on Mr Jones' part, or lack of funds.

She snuck a glance over at Mr Jones in an attempt to gauge his thoughts, but he gave nothing away. His hat was pulled low, his shoulders hunched, his left arm behind his back and slightly under his jacket so the hook was out of sight. He looked very much like he didn't want to be there at all.

It was possibly the first time all morning that Emma might have agreed with him.

But any notion she may have entertained about fleeing the store was quickly quashed by the appearance of a girl behind the counter. She was younger than Emma, with thick dark hair and full, red lips. She looked Mr Jones over and then fixed him with a wide smile that didn't seem at all forced. "Mr Jones. I wasn't expecting to see you in the store today."

Emma looked at him closely to see how he reacted to her. He smiled back in a way that made Emma think that Mr Jones and the shop girl had enjoyed these little exchanges previously. "Miss Lucas," he replied, in a much kinder voice than he'd possibly ever used while speaking to Emma. "How could I stay away?"

That was not the reaction she'd expected from him at all and Emma found it all intensely interesting to observe. She just wished that it was interesting in a way that she could be completely impartial about. Sadly she found that she was more than a little hurt.

This was a ridiculous notion, of course. She'd known the man a whole day, after all. She may have married him, but she hardly had any right to feel jealous of the way he was speaking to a girl in a shop.

Emma tried to wave her feelings away. It was humiliating in much the same way as her reaction to him that morning had been, when he'd appeared before them with his shirt unbuttoned and she'd had to stop herself from getting too close to him, pulling up short as she walked towards him. Emma was afraid that any proximity might just lead her to actually reach out and touch him, not out of any desire to help him with the buttons he so clearly struggled with, but because she was intensely curious about the feel of the dark hair that covered his chest. She couldn't allow herself to get swept away on a tide of silly, girlish fantasies about a man who didn't want her.

Emma was infuriated with Mr Jones, and infuriated with herself for allowing her feelings to run away with her. When Miss Lucas looked in Emma's direction she was sure that the girl's eyes went wide as she no doubt saw the angry expression Emma was currently sporting.

It was not the first impression she had hoped to make. She tried to gather her thoughts and try to get her emotions under control.

"And, of course this is…" Mr Jones turned his head in Emma's direction and then paused. She gritted her teeth behind the smile she'd carefully worked her features into and waited to see if he'd label her Swan or Jones.

But she never got to hear which name he intended to use because the girl behind the counter, the Miss Lucas he seemed on such good terms with, let out a small gasp of recognition. "Oh, of course," she said. "We knew you were coming…but…and then…I'm so sorry. For your loss." She sent a wide-eyed look of sympathy in Emma's direction.

Emma tensed, unsure how to deal with the fact that the news of her impending arrival had obviously been common knowledge and the added information that this girl was offering condolences on the death of a man Emma had never met.

Her gaze shifted to the side, most decidedly away from Mr Jones, and she murmured "Thank you," to Miss Lucas, knowing all the while she was not the one who should be on the receiving end of heart-felt sympathies.

And then it occurred to Emma that Miss Lucas had probably already offered some kind of…comfort to Mr Jones, and she became even more uncomfortable with being in the store with the two of them. The petulant child who seemed to have taken up residence in Emma's head reminded her, once again, that it wasn't supposed to be like this, at all. And the knowledge that this situation was far from the one she had pictured back in Boston burned in the back of Emma's throat and made further comments impossible. All she could do was nod at the woman and pretend that it would suffice as a demonstration of her good manners.

Henry seemed to have lost interest in the implements on display in the store and he appeared at Emma's side. "And this is Henry," Mr Jones continued, no doubt for Miss Lucas's benefit.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," Henry said, and Emma felt her heart swell a little with the pride that she never failed to feel whenever Henry was…well, Henry. It was just a little bit magic, she thought, that moment when your child made you proud. And he was hers. All hers.

"Well, you are sweet!" Miss Lucas exclaimed. Her face had lost the solemn expression it had held just a moment ago, but her smile wasn't for Emma, it was for Henry. And Mr Jones.

Emma sighed, as loudly as she dared. "We've come for some items," she announced, in her most authoritative voice. "Perhaps you'd be so kind as to assist?"

It was impossible not to notice the way Miss Lucas stiffened at her words, and shot a glance in the direction of Mr Jones, as though to silently commiserate with him. Emma cursed herself inwardly that, once again, the impression she was making was not the one she wanted to make. Nothing she did seemed to turn out right.

"Of course," Miss Lucas replied, with admirable composure, Emma thought. But then curiosity clearly got the better of her professional air. "So…you're staying on for a while, then? In Storybrooke?" she asked, looking at Emma as though she was trying to figure out what on earth would make her stay.

Emma's eyes travelled to Mr Jones. She hoped he might elaborate on their situation given that all she seemed to have done was alienate Miss Lucas since the start. But he remained silent.

"I…we're wed," Emma said, her voice sounding flat even to her own ears. She'd never expected to be the joyous bride, but she just sounded downright miserable about the whole situation.

And Mr Jones, of course, standing only two feet away from her couldn't help but notice. At least, that was what Emma supposed from the way his shoulders slumped as she spoke. The whole situation was uncomfortable in a way she'd never experienced before. And she'd had more than her fair share of tense moments.

"Well…congratulations?" Miss Lucas managed to make that sound as though it was a question. If it was, it was something that Emma couldn't possibly answer. Not right at that moment, anyhow.

"Thank you," Emma managed to force out, and then there was a long, tense moment while she tried to ascertain if she needed to add anything further. Neither Mr Jones nor Miss Lucas seemed to want to contribute further conversation and Henry, no doubt growing increasingly uncomfortable with the constant air of tension surrounding all the adults, was growing restless at her side, twisting and turning and shuffling his feet around. "Perhaps we should move on to the task at hand," Emma murmured, looking for any way out of the hole she'd managed to dig for herself.

"Certainly," Miss Lucas replied, nodding two or three times. "What is it that you require Mrs…Jones?"

The sound of her new name out of someone else's mouth made an already tense moment worse, Emma realised. But there was nothing for it than to go forward now. "I think," she said, trying to gather her thoughts. "We need flour, coffee, and some sugar. Let's start there."

Emma managed to dampen down her embarrassment long enough to get through the rather tedious process of ordering all the things they needed. Without previous discussions of how much they had to spend she endeavoured to stick to the basics, rejecting items she considered luxuries, such as cinnamon, something she'd discovered late in life but which she was very fond of.

But there wasn't much call for spices as a farmer's wife, she supposed. She was also going to be reliant on what vegetables she could salvage from the small garden she'd spied on the farm, and she asked for Ruby for a little salted beef while Mr Jones mumbled something about rabbits. She'd have to count on him for further meat.

When everything was packaged and waiting on the counter, Miss Lucas began totalling up the goods they'd purchased, frowning as she wrote everything up with a pencil she gripped rather tightly. Emma watched as Mr Jones started shuffling forward towards her, at first hesitantly, and then with a little more purpose.

He leaned on the counter, directly in front of Miss Lucas and fixed her with that smile again. "Thank you for your help with that," he said. "We'll, ah…Just add it to the account."

Miss Lucas looked up from the bill she writing and she wasn't smiling back this time. "Oh. Oh…uh. Granny won't…well,  _she_  said to me… It's, uh…No. Sorry."

Emma wondered how Mr Jones would take that refusal, but he appeared to brush it off. "Come now," he said, gently, leaning further over the counter. "You're a smart lass. I'm sure Mrs Lucas would understand if you saw fit to extend a little credit to a, well. To a  _family_  who's in need of a little kindness at the moment."

Emma couldn't help but bristle at the mention of family. It seemed typical that he only chose to acknowledge that she and Henry had any connection to him right at the moment when he couldn't pay for the items they were trying to purchase. He was clearly playing on the good nature of the shop girl and Emma, who couldn't exactly admit to having a completely lily-white past, still felt more than a little uncomfortable at the scene unfolding in front of her.

Miss Lucas pressed her lips together and looked as though she was squaring her shoulders for another refusal, but then Mr Jones tried one last time. "Miss Lucas… Ruby. I know it's a lot to ask, but I…I'm sorry. With Liam gone, things are tight. And our funds have dwindled further than I knew." Mr Jones turned and his gaze fell on Emma and she tried to read his expression. Sad, she thought. Mostly, he just looked sad.

And then, all of a sudden, Emma realised where exactly these dwindling funds Mr Jones kept speaking of had gone, and her heart sunk so fast she was surprised that no one could hear it as it hit the floor.

On her. Liam Jones had spent their last money on bringing her, and Henry, to Storybrooke. He'd bought a bride and he hadn't told his brother and now she was the only legacy there was to pass on. No wonder Mr Jones had wanted her to stay, no wonder he'd offered to take her on. He didn't really want her, but couldn't let Liam's investment just get back on a train.

It wasn't that she hadn't been someone's secret before. She'd just never had to confront the consequences quite so brutally.

Emma wanted to run right out of the store at that moment, find a train, and get the hell out of Storybrooke. But fear, and a certain sense of propriety, kept her rooted to the spot.

"I suppose we could add this," Miss Lucas said, more than a little grudgingly. "But Granny won't like it and it can't happen again."

"Thank you, lass," Mr Jones said, with something that sounded like genuine gratitude. He took the box of items, balanced carefully in his arms, and walked past Emma and out of the store without making eye-contact.

Emma sighed, and was about to bid good-bye to Miss Lucas and follow him, when Henry stepped up, holding a small paper package. "Mama," he said, sounding serious. "I think we should get these." He held up the packet for Emma's perusal. Written on the paper, in a beautiful script, were the words Apple Tree.

"They're seeds," he explained. "We could plant an apple tree. In the garden…well, outside the house. Then it will feel like home."

Henry gazed up at Emma expectantly, his dark-brown eyes shiny with hope. Emma looked at the packet in her hand. Home, he said. But Emma had never really had a home. And the apple tree had been in the garden of Regina's home.

"Alright," she said, slowly. If Henry needed an apple tree to feel at home, then she'd get him an apple tree. It seemed the least she could do. "Miss Lucas, could we possibly add this to the bill?"

Once the seeds were purchased, Emma and Henry stepped back outside into the sunshine. She could see the wagon they'd arrived on, still tethered to the post. Their shopping had been placed on the back, but Mr Jones was nowhere to be seen. She wasn't sure what to do next. Did they wait or find something else to occupy them while he was elsewhere?

She didn't have too long to ponder their next actions as, just then, she heard a voice calling her name. "Mrs Swan!"

"Look, Mama!" Henry said, pointing. "It's Miss Blanchard."

Emma squinted and could make out Miss Blanchard as she hustled over, the grey silk of her dress rustling as she did so. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you!" she exclaimed, breathlessly, as she reached them. "Both of you." She fixed Henry with a bright smile and he smiled shyly back.

"And it's lovely to see you as well," Emma replied, trying not to look as though she was still searching around the town for any sign of Mr Jones. But she was, of course. He'd left the wagon, sure, but he'd also left her and it wasn't the first time someone had just walked away from her and never come back again. And it wasn't even like he'd made her any promises first.

"Are you settling in?" Emma asked, more for a distraction than anything else.

"Oh, yes. I'm staying with Mr Nolan, the sheriff, and his mother and step-father, the Spencers. They're all very charming, just lovely. They've been very welcoming. Sheriff Nolan's been helping me with the schoolroom this morning, and we were just taking a walk around town, so I could get better acquainted with everything." Miss Blanchard paused long enough to cast a glance back over her shoulder to where a tall man with fair hair was standing. Emma recognised him as one of the men who'd collected Miss Blanchard from the train station the day before. He gave a nod in Miss Blanchard's direction, but didn't join them as another man approached him and called his attention away.

Still, Miss Blanchard continued to keep her eyes on Sheriff Nolan just long enough to give away exactly what she thought of him. And then she turned back to Emma. "And you? Your Mr Jones came for you, I presume?"

Emma thought about how to explain her situation in a way that didn't sound complicated but, once again, Henry stepped in on her behalf. "The other Mr Jones did," he said.

"The other one?" Miss Blanchard looked from Henry to Emma.

"Yes," Emma confirmed. "His brother…"

Henry, clearly tired of being left out of so many adult conversations that morning, jumped in again, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Mama's Mr Jones died. He got hit by lightning. We saw him get buried. Then the other Mr Jones…the one she has now…he married her instead. So we can still live on the farm and I can milk a cow now and I'll ride soon. And probably fish. Also, we're going to plant an apple tree. We bought the seeds."

Miss Blanchard was getting better at hiding her surprise at the things Henry blurted out, Emma noticed, as her eyes barely widened this time and her smile never faded at all. Still, when she no doubt reached the conclusion that Henry's little speech was done, she turned to Emma with her perfect dark brows knitted together. "He died?" she queried.

"Unfortunately, yes. Freak accident." Emma realised she sounded detached, but what could she do? She couldn't manufacture a sense of loss for someone she'd never known. More to the point she was still trying to ascertain the whereabouts of her Mr Jones, as Henry had termed him.

 _Killian_ , she reminded herself.  _His name is Killian_.

"That's…" Miss Blanchard clearly couldn't come up with what that was, but her eyes filled with tears which threatened to fall. And then she grasped Emma's hands in hers and Emma had to resist the urge to pull them back. She was simply uncomfortable with and downright unused to such displays of emotion. Especially when they were on her behalf.

"We will make do," she assured Miss Blanchard. "And be quite happy in Storybrooke."

"With your new husband," Miss Blanchard added, with less conviction that Emma had mustered. "Was it strange? Marrying a man you'd never met?"

Emma opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Yes, it was strange. But she couldn't confess that. No matter how kindly Miss Blanchard looked at her, how much she appeared to be concerned with Emma's well-being. It was too…personal. She couldn't let it be known that, once again, she'd failed to be what anyone wanted. "It was unexpected. But I barely knew Liam Jones; we only corresponded for a short time, after all. I am certain that his brother is cut from the same cloth. And he has shown himself more than willing to look after Henry and myself, as his brother would have wished."

 _I am a big, fat liar_ , Emma thought.

Miss Blanchard nodded, but didn't look overly convinced. And then Henry pointed and said, loudly, "Look. He's over there! See, Mama! He was here all along."

Henry sounded happy to have located Mr Jones; Emma supposed he'd been missing his company. She took her hands back from Miss Blanchard and grabbed Henry's hand and held it tightly, just in case he decided to run off and greet him. She didn't need Henry getting knocked over by a carriage or wagon right then.

Henry didn't complain, but he didn't stop pointing, either, and Miss Blanchard, naturally, turned to see Emma's new husband who, now that Emma could focus on him properly, was standing outside a building which had a large sign on its front proclaiming it to be the Queen of Hearts saloon. He was holding what was clearly a bottle of alcohol and having an animated conversation with a young woman.

Well, her side of the conversation was animated. She'd pointed at his chest more than once. Mr Jones was standing stock still and just…accepting it. As though he'd heard it before, whatever the girl in the green satin and black lace dress with the messy blonde hair piled on top of her head had to say to him. Outside a saloon. In which she probably worked.

And resided.

And Emma really didn't want to follow that train of thought any longer. She was mortified, simply mortified. And to make it worse, Miss Blanchard was still standing in front of her, looking in the same direction and failing to miss Mr Jones and his…friend.

"The man with the hoo…" Miss Blanchard began, before stopping abruptly. "I mean. The man over there. In front of the…that building?"

"Yes. That's him, Miss Blanchard," Henry announced, a little warily. No doubt he could sense there was something odd in the way the two women had reacted to their sighting of Mr Jones.

Emma couldn't think of a single thing she could say that would make the situation better. So she stayed resolutely quiet in the hope that something, anything, would make the whole scene before her disappear.

But there was no mistaking what was going on. Especially not when the girl with Mr Jones looked over at Emma and then turned back to him to resume pointing and talking. Emma couldn't hear their conversation, but she had very little doubt of its subject.

"Mrs Swan?" Miss Blanchard said, in an urgent, low voice, breaking into Emma's musings. "I'm sorry if I'm speaking out of turn, but I would like to be frank with you, if I can."

"Certainly." Emma's voice was stiff and high and she hated Mr Jones for putting her in this position. If she could have struck him dead in the street with the force of her will alone, then, right at that moment, she would have. Consequences be damned.

Miss Blanchard moved so her mouth was close to Emma's ear, no doubt so she could speak quietly and avoid Henry hearing. "If you feel unsafe or just…want to leave," she murmured quickly. "Then I will assist you in any way I can. Do not feel yourself friendless because this is a new place. I am here and no doubt Sheriff Nolan and his mother, Mrs Spencer, will open up their home to you and Henry, just as they did to me. Until you can return to your own home, that is."

Miss Blanchard stepped back and gave her a long, hard look, as though she was imprinting her earnestness on Emma. But Emma didn't feel comforted by her words. She'd spoken of home. A home Emma could return to.

Emma had no such thing. And she was ashamed to admit that to this kind stranger who seemed to care so much.

"We will be fine," Emma said, eventually. Miss Blanchard looked a little sceptical at that and then, after a moment, she looked a little sheepish. "But I am not…offended that you chose to speak your mind," Emma continued. "I thank you for your concern."

She was sure that her words sounded false, not because she didn't feel thankful, but because she was so unused to having cause to say them. But they seemed to work to brighten Miss Blanchard's mood and send a smile back to her face.

Still Emma wished that Miss Blanchard would leave, preferably before Mr Jones re-joined their party. She didn't, and instead the Sheriff, having finished with whatever business he had with the other man, joined them instead.

Miss Blanchard's smile grew considerably brighter at that point. "Oh, Sheriff Nolan! You remember Mrs Swan, who was so good as to accompany me on the train? And her son, Henry." Miss Blanchard fixed all three of them with such bright smiles that she may as well have been making the introductions at the church picnic.

"Ma'am," the sheriff said, as he touched the brim of his hat and nodded to Emma. She felt mildly pleased that the conversation had moved on from the uncomfortable spectacle of Mr Jones beside the saloon. But then she realised that it was now or never.

"Actually, it's Mrs Jones now. As I was married yesterday." Emma watched as the sheriff's eyes darted in the direction that Emma now simply refused to glance in and it was absolutely clear to all and sundry that he'd put two and two together and come up with her situation in a nutshell.

To his credit, it only showed on his face for a moment or two. But she noticed that no congratulations were offered, no questions were asked about how she'd met her husband, or what brought her out here. Sheriff Nolan just looked sorry for her.

She'd seen that look before.

"Well," he said eventually, turning to Miss Blanchard. "I should be getting you back for lunch. Mother will be wondering where we are." He extended his arm, and Miss Blanchard took it.

"I wouldn't want you to get in trouble," she said, perhaps a little breathlessly.

"No," the sheriff replied. "And you'll get to meet Kathryn, too. I'm sure you'll be great friends."

"Yes. Oh. Your fiancée, yes." Miss Blanchard sounded a little less enthusiastic now. "We should definitely be getting back, then." She turned to Emma. "I hope…well. Just remember what I said. You have friends. A friend, anyway." Her eyes flicked over to where Mr Jones was no doubt still standing.

"Thank you," Emma replied, and she meant it. She was grateful, but there was nothing Miss Blanchard or anyone else could do for her. She'd made her bed, and she'd lie in it, alone, until she died.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Blanchard," Henry added, as she and the sheriff turned to leave.

"Well, that will be lovely. I'll have at least one pupil to get me started!" Her words were cheerful, and Emma thought that whatever had bothered her earlier had passed.

At least Henry was going to like his teacher, she thought, as she watched the two of them depart. That was something, she supposed. And it was far better to focus on Henry, the reason she was here, after all, than on the man who was currently dashing all her hopes for a better life.

"Alright," she announced, as authoritatively as she could muster right then. "Let's get back on the wagon and wait for Mr Jones."

"Yes, Mama."


	7. Chapter 7

The fact she had avoided talking to him all morning wasn't really an impediment to Killian knowing exactly what Mrs Swan thought of him right then. It was abundantly clear in the set of her shoulders as he watched her climb into the wagon from where he was standing by the saloon, being harangued, once again, by that girl.

Trouble was that he'd heard it, or variations of it, all before. Heard just what a pathetic excuse for a man he was, and, although he'd like to say none of it had ever sunk in, Killian couldn't help but feel that her words were wasted precisely because he knew they were true.

"I can't believe you have the nerve to parade  _her_  around town. After everything that happened!" the girl continued, jerking her head towards Emma. Killian wasn't entirely sure if she had a real name, mostly she was just known as the Tinker's Belle, due to the fact she'd arrived in town on the wagon of a tinker, who may or may not have been her father. There were rumours that most of the work he carried out for the citizens of Storybrooke was actually completed by this tiny girl anyway, but it still didn't seem to have stopped him leaving her behind when he left. And so she'd ended up in the saloon, last resort of all homeless and nameless girls.

He'd almost feel sorry for her; if she'd just bloody well shut up for a second, that is. "You don't understand," he murmured, feeling that the words were inadequate and sounded self-pitying, although he wasn't looking for sympathy. It was simply the truth. The only person who'd understood, or, at least, had held himself back from judging Killian, had been Liam. And he was dead and buried now.

Everyone who might have sided with him was, now. And Killian felt incredibly alone, standing in the middle of the street, under the curious gaze of his new wife and the rather scornful expression of the girl right in front of him.

It would have been so different if Milah had lived.

"What exactly don't I understand? I'm living it, same as every other woman in there is, ain't I?" The Tinker's Belle gestured to the saloon and Killian turned towards the door she was pointing at and saw a rustle of purple silk skirts in the background. It was too much to hope that _she_  wouldn't be watching him from the shadows, he supposed. Cora Mills, proprietor of The Queen of Hearts saloon, would no doubt welcome any opportunity to remind him of exactly what he'd done.

"I'm through with this conversation. Good day," he said, trying to step away from the girl, who seemed a little reluctant to give up on her quest to drag him down as far as she could.

"She'll find out," she spat back at him, sounding like an angry cat on a dark night. "Your fancy new wife. She'll find out and then she'll be sorry she ever stayed here with you, and I can't blame her at all. Who'd want to be married to you?" With that she turned on her heel and flounced back into the saloon, leaving Killian standing there, in the street, feeling that he couldn't help but agree with her last sentiments.

Perhaps he should just throw himself under the next train and save them all from further misery?

But there wasn't a train due that day, and he could hardly sneak off when he'd heard Henry point him out just moments before, when he'd seen Mrs Swan and that schoolteacher and the bloody Sheriff all sneaking glances at him being accosted by one of the women from the saloon. He had nowhere to hide. Not from her, not from any of them.

That feeling just made him angry with Mrs Swan all over again. It was irrational, and he knew that. At least, he would have if he'd stopped to examine his feelings. But he was hardly about to stand in the main street, in full view of everyone, and ponder his own contribution to the debacle that was his day old marriage to Mrs Swan.

And so, despite having already spent enough time dealing with the aftermath of what happened to him to know that he, alone, was the person most responsible for his own fate, Killian couldn't help but now feel that some of the problem was due entirely to Mrs Swan's completely unreasonable desire to marry a man she'd only ever corresponded with and drag her son to Kansas in the process.

Because if she'd never come here, then she'd have never have had cause to be so bloody disappointed in him. And, really, he could have lived his whole life quite happily without seeing the evidence of that.

Killian walked to the wagon, carefully avoiding meeting Mrs Swan's gaze, although he could almost guarantee that she'd be looking anywhere but at him. It was bloody impressive just how fascinating the wall in front of them seemed to be. Almost as impressive as her ability to completely ignore his attempts to speak to her earlier. He untied the horses and clambered up, noticing that Henry was, once again, wedged firmly into the middle of the seat, no doubt placed there by his mother as a barrier between them.

He got the horses moving and they set off. Killian wasn't particularly sorry to see the buildings of Storybrooke disappearing, although he wondered what on earth awaited him back at the farm. So far she was holding her tongue, but there was no telling what was going on beneath the surface with this woman sometimes. And now she'd surely seen the worst of it; knew the true extent of his financial difficulties, knew he couldn't even set foot in the town without being accosted and accused of all sorts of wrongdoings against an innocent…well, formerly innocent, woman. If she'd thought the fact he was missing a hand had made him a less than ideal choice of husband, now she had a whole myriad of other reasons to throw into that pot.

God, he wanted a drink about now. He could feel the bottle he'd purchased at the saloon sitting heavily in his coat pocket where he'd stowed it and he wanted nothing more than to just stop the wagon and satisfy the thirst that burned his throat and his heart.

It had been a stupid risk to even set foot in the place, especially when he was with Mrs Swan. But the pay-off, the ability to block out every single bloody awful moment of this day, would be worth it in the end.

He just had to wait until he was alone again. And then it would be fine, because the drink would make him forget everything that had happened. At least for the time until he woke up from his alcohol-induced slumber, that was.

Killian's thoughts were turned so far inward that it took him a while to notice that Henry had resorted to tugging on his sleeve to get his attention. Henry was seated on his left and, by instinct, he wrenched his arm away from the boy, anxious to keep him safe from the hook. Or, at least, that was the reason he'd give after the fact if anybody bothered to question his actions.

The sudden movement made Henry sit back up straighter, but, unlike his mother, he seemed slow to take offence. Rather than lapse into a deep and accusatory silence, he asked "Does it hurt?"

"What?"

"Your arm."

"Oh. Not…no. Not now. Not really." Killian wasn't used to being asked questions about his hand and he certainly wasn't prepared for Henry to reply "That's good." Good was a word few people used about a limb that had been amputated and Killian was inclined to agree that there was nothing good about it.

Henry was of a different opinion. "It would be horrible if it hurt all the time. Or if you lost it. The hook part, I mean. Aunt Regina had a man who stayed in her house and he had a wooden eye and it used to roll away sometimes. The maids hated having to look for it under the furniture and Aunt Regina used to get a little mad, too. She couldn't abide carelessness. Or girls who were unnecessarily squeamish."

Killian was completely at a loss as to how to reply to Henry's story, or to know if a reply was even required. He was intrigued though; the boy seemed to have had an unusual upbringing with this Aunt Regina whose relationship to Mrs Swan was still a little hazy to him. Killian was starting to understand why, perhaps, Henry was taking the move to Kansas in his stride. Or, at the very least, he could see that being on the farm might be a welcome break from a stuffy boarding house full of strange men and ruled over by a rather formidable landlady.

He snuck a look to his left and found that Henry was just smiling at him, as though they were having a pleasant discussion about the weather. Somehow that didn't make things any easier for Killian; it had been such a long time since anyone had attempted to engage him in what might be termed pleasant conversation that he still had no response.

Henry didn't seem to need one. "She liked her apple tree though. I wanted to show you we had seeds for one, see?" There was movement on the left as Henry held up a small paper packet for Killian's perusal. "Mama said we could plant them, and then it will be like home."

That statement just confused Killian further, as most things about Mrs Swan seemed to. He had expected, especially after the stony silence and black looks which had been her sole response to him since the morning, that she would be far from thinking of the farm as any home of hers. He didn't quite know what to make of her on-going quiet resolve to make a life here, with him. And he didn't understand why she was casting worried glances in Henry's direction, now, as though the apple tree was supposed to be some secret. As if she would stay on the farm, but he somehow wouldn't know.

Maybe she was planning on getting him to leave?

It almost made him want to go back to town and face down the Tinker's Belle again because at least he could understand what her point was. Mrs Swan was a bundle of contradictions and Henry was something else altogether, his relentless conversation a clear contrast to his mother's silence.

He watched the road ahead and wondered if it would always be like this; if they would continue on as slightly antagonistic strangers with only Henry between them to broker any kind of peace. Killian pondered just how long it would be before Henry tired of that role and struck out on his own.

He very much hoped it wouldn't come to that point because he did not think he would be able to placate Mrs Swan if she'd just watched Henry disappear over the horizon.

And Killian, once again, realised how terribly and utterly unsuited he was to being part of a marriage, part of a family, part of  _anything_  that involved other people. He wasn't only responsible for the welfare of Mrs Swan and Henry, and he'd done a poor job of that so far, given the morning's debacle in the store when he'd practically had to beg Miss Lucas for credit just so there'd be something to eat. He was also, he now saw, responsible somewhat for the emotional wellbeing of the woman he'd married in such a rush of bravado.

The problem was that he did not have the faintest idea how to accomplish such a feat as keeping her happy. Her dirty looks told him how much he was failing at his task, but he had no clue as to how to change that. Killian had some idea of courtship; he knew, in theory at least, what was expected if you wooed a woman, and he realised that respectable women were different to…well, the other women he might have known in the past.

But somehow he had skipped straight over that part in his relationship with Mrs Swan. And now he had no idea which of the brave fronts he usually put up to hide the cracks in his soul would be most appealing to her. Maybe none of them would. He definitely suspected that she wouldn't be as easy to charm as Miss Lucas.

He had started on the back foot with Mrs Swan and he looked likely to stay there for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately for her, the raw wound that was Liam's death was too new to cover up with an approximation of a suitable husband, as he covered up the stump of his arm with an approximation of a hand.

Henry's voice broke through his reverie. "So…you'll like it when we have apples? Won't you?"

"Aye. I will."

Mrs Swan did not turn her head in his direction when they returned to the farm, bustling inside as soon as she could, taking some of their purchases with her. By the time he walked inside the cabin himself, there was no sign of her. The box she'd carried was on the table and the rickety, makeshift door to the bedroom – the one Liam had hastily erected only a week before – was closed.

Killian couldn't even pretend to be surprised by that. He carried the last box inside and then headed back out to see to the horses, somewhat thankful to have something to keep him busy.

Mrs Swan seemed to feel the same way. When he passed around the front of the cabin a little while later he could spy her through the door sweeping the floor with a grim determination, wielding the broom as thought it was a weapon that would vanquish everything in her path. He was tempted to point out that a dirt floor could only be swept so clean, but the thought crossed Killian's mind that what she really wanted to sweep right out of her life was actually him, so he held his tongue and walked away.

He didn't get far before Henry caught up to him, falling into step as he walked across the yard. He waited to see if Henry had been sent with a message, or if he'd come to question Killian about the rift with Mrs Swan. But if Henry had noticed anything was amiss he was continuing to ignore it in favour of just becoming Killian's shadow.

"What are you doing?" Henry asked after a while.

"I…uh…have some things that I need to do."

"Well, I can do them too, right? Even if I'm going to school tomorrow…I can still help today?"

"I suppose." Killian wasn't entirely certain if he was supposed to keep away from Henry now that Mrs Swan has witnessed the spectacle in the street which spoke volumes about the character and standing of the man she had married. He felt that Mrs Swan might worry about him corrupting her son and figure out some way to keep them apart.

He wondered if that's where the broom would really prove useful to her. As a weapon to guard her son and her home from the likes of himself.

"Mama's cleaning," Henry announced, as though it hadn't been obvious from the furious brushing of Mrs Swan's broom.

"Yes." Killian wondered if Henry would add anything to his statement, but he didn't, which just made Killian think that perhaps Henry had witnessed this behaviour on more than one occasion.

And if perhaps Henry was following him around because he was afraid he was the cause of his mother's obvious ire, and determined to keep out of her way.

"I think it's my fault," Killian said, as they reached the door of the barn. "That she's cleaning everything so…forcefully."

But his words that were meant to bring comfort merely added confusion into the expression Henry wore. "You…you brought all the dirt inside?"

"I…" Killian looked down at Henry, his brow furrowed as he clearly tried to make sense of the adults and their perplexing ways. "Yes," he said, at last. "That would be my doing, lad."

Henry nodded knowledgably. "You should be glad that it's Mama and not Aunt Regina. She didn't like any dirt in the house. She had maids, of course, but she'd still get upset over muddy boots. She said that she might be forced to let strangers into her house, but they didn't have to traipse all the dirt in with them. That was a bridge too far."

Killian looked at Henry thoughtfully. "You didn't mind?" he asked. "Living with the other people in Aunt Regina's house? Not living with your…mother?"

The question seemed to stump Henry greatly. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, before finally fixing his gaze somewhere on the horizon. "I didn't get to mind," he said, his voice not much more than a whisper.

Killian didn't have a ready response to that information, and began to regret he'd asked the question at all. If he felt ill-equipped to be a husband, he was even less suited for this kind of discussion. He'd been curious about the situation Henry had been in; the Aunt Regina he kept mentioning seemed to have a tenuous relationship to Mrs Swan and he wanted to know why she'd entrusted the son she seemed to care so deeply about to this woman. But he didn't want to know the story if it meant distressing Henry in the process.

There was, after all, only so much sweeping that could be done.

"You can help me fix the chicken coop, then. I think some animal's been raiding it at night," he said to Henry, and he watched the boy's face change expression almost instantly.

"Can I?"

"Sure. I could use a hand." If Henry recognised the irony in that statement, he was polite enough not to point it out. Or possibly too excited at the thought of their task. And that excitement proved to be a problem once they actually got as far as replacing some of the wood that had rotted away at the back of the coop. Killian attempted to get Henry to hold the nail for him, a hook not being the best substitute for a hand in that situation. But Henry's inability to hold the nail in place, and his habit of flinching every time the hammer got near, was going to end up with them in a serious accident if they weren't careful.

"Maybe you should try with the hammer," Killian suggested, holding it out to him. He reasoned that Henry was likely to feel a little safer wielding the hammer himself, and therefore the success rate for the hammer connecting with the nail would be considerably greater.

Killian realised quite quickly that he may have been overly optimistic. Henry's enthusiasm for his task didn't match his skill and the hammer connected with his thumb more times than it met the head of the nail. He tried to be stoic about the repeated knocks, but a particularly nasty bang made him drop the hammer with a yelp of pain. "Ow!"

It was at that precise moment that Mrs Swan appeared around the side of the coop, the frown she was already wearing deepening dramatically at the sight of Henry clutching his hand in pain. "What happened?"

Henry didn't immediately answer, no doubt sensing that whatever he came up with, it wasn't going to satisfy his mother. Instead he looked at Killian, no doubt assuming he'd have some way to make it all seem as though nothing untoward was taking place.

And it was, after all, perfectly normal to struggle with a hammer until you eventually mastered it. Killian couldn't think of anyone who'd escaped without the odd knock to a finger or thumb. Indeed Liam, when hanging the door in the cabin, had managed to administer a very large blow to the side of his hand and the cursing that followed it had almost been comical until the point when his eyes had met Killian's and he'd looked embarrassed for the way he was acting over a slightly bruised hand which could, quite clearly, never compare to a missing one.

Killian had stopped watching Liam at that time and left him alone in the cabin to finish.

"Henry's been helping me," he informed Mrs Swan.

"I can see that." Her words sounded as though she was talking through teeth pressed firmly together. "But I can also see he's injured."

"Not badly, Mama. See, it's not even bleeding." He held his hand out to Mrs Swan who examined it closely.

"As you see," Killian added. "The boy hasn't suffered any permanent damage while in my care."

"I suppose I should be grateful," she said, sounding not at all grateful. "That you're taking better care of him than you do of yourself." Mrs Swan directed a rather pointed glance at Killian's hook, before bending her head to examine Henry again.

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Killian did not know how to respond to Mrs Swan's comment. It had been thrown at him in the heat of the moment, sure, but he was so unused to other people acknowledging the fact his hand was missing, let alone accusing him of being careless enough to injure himself, that he didn't have a ready retort. All he could do was shrug and continue watching her closely, waiting for some kind of clue as to how to proceed.

But Mrs Swan didn't offer any. She was far too preoccupied with Henry and Henry's potential injuries to pay any attention to Killian and the fact he was openly staring at her now. The thing he found most perplexing, he decided, were these flashes of someone else, someone other than the woman who pretended to be grateful, who flinched when he lost his temper, who pursed her lips and looked completely unamused when she had to accompany him into town. This woman, with the determined set to her jaw and the flash of fire in her green eyes, this was the woman who really interested him and he found himself half-hoping that she'd appear again, and half-terrified that she would.

For one thing, he suspected that a tongue-lashing from her would be ten times worse than anything he had suffered from the Tinker's Belle. And it would be infinitely more humiliating, somehow, coming from Mrs Swan; the litany of his transgressions read to him by the person he least wanted to know what he'd done.

"There is some luncheon. Inside. Just bread and cheese," she said suddenly, having examined Henry thoroughly enough to realise that he still had all his fingers and thumbs attached. "I was going to do something hot…but I have to confess that I find that stove to be nothing but troublesome." Her eyes rested on Killian and he suspected that the stove wasn't the only thing she was currently troubled by.

"Aye. It is a little tempestuous. But I'm sure you'll end up on better terms with it."

Mrs Swan fixed him with a narrow-eyed gaze. "I am not sure that it can be redeemed," she said, before turning on her heel and fleeing the scene.

Killian watched her figure retreating towards the cabin, feeling something that could only be termed regret. He still believed that the impression he had made with Mrs Swan was irredeemable, but somehow it had been better when it had been met by only her shocked silence. This, this tacit acknowledgment of his unsuitability as a husband, a position he was clearly expected to second, this was a hundred times worse. Worse than being called to account in the street by some half-wild saloon girl, worse than Milah and what came afterwards, worse than losing Liam, worse, even, than having Liam and having to face his quiet pity on each and every occasion when the loss of Killian's hand came to the forefront.

None of that compared to watching Mrs Swan walk away and understanding that she knew now what he was. It was the same sinking feeling that had begun on the day Liam had hung the door and everything that had happened that morning had just compounded it. He wasn't fit to be around a woman and her child; not with the darkness he carried wherever he went. Liam had known it, must have known it. His plans that he'd kept so close to his chest, his worried glances in Killian's direction, had all been due to his desire to keep his brother away from the new family he hoped to fashion.

And Killian couldn't blame him in the least. It was what any decent man would do, and Liam was nothing but decent. He would have saved Mrs Swan the humiliation of watching her new husband begging for credit, being accosted in the street and the looks…the pitying looks Killian had seen her receive from the Sheriff and the schoolteacher. If he could have spared her anything, it would have been those.

But he couldn't undo it now. All he could do was count down the hours until the day was done and he could open his new bottle of whiskey and wait for the blackness to take hold of him once again.

And it wasn't like he hadn't had to face the emptiness of the path he'd chosen before. He should be used to it by now; used to the knowledge that he would never have anything good in his life. Secure in the knowledge that everything –  _everything_  – that he thought he could be had been ripped away from him the day that Milah died.

He took a deep breath and steered his mind away from the dark thoughts that threatened to take him over to focus on the task at hand.

"Well, Henry." Killian turned to where Henry was still rooted to the spot. "Shall we finish up before we eat?"

"I suppose so. But maybe you should hold the nail and I should have the hammer? I think you'd be better at holding it than I am." Henry smiled brightly, seemingly confident that his suggestion was going to prove to be the best solution.

Killian knew that he could ill-afford to injure his only hand, but at the same time he deeply desired not to encounter any further wrath from Mrs Swan should Henry do himself any more harm. There was really no option. "Aye. But you'll have to try really hard to hit the bloody nail and not me."

"I can do that. I think I'm getting really good at it now!"

"You are, Henry. Just…hit the nail, though."

"Yes, sir. I promise. I'll try."

"Good lad."

Killian waited for the inevitable blow from the hammer Henry was now wielding and wished that he could so easily make promises, at least to Mrs Swan. But perhaps, if nothing else, he could follow Henry's example, and try.


	8. Chapter 8

Emma had learnt a long time ago that it did no good to dwell on your situation, especially when you had little power to change it. She was here, she was married to him. End of story.

And it wasn't exactly a happy ending. That much was abundantly clear from the visit they'd made into Storybrooke that morning. The words 'marry in haste, repent at leisure' rolled around Emma's head and she wanted nothing more than to shut that annoying little voice up as quickly as possible.

So she settled for doing rather than thinking. She packed away the new provisions as best she could, and then set to sweeping the floor. It was a rather thankless task, given that the floor was nothing more than packed down dirt, but it made her feel a little bit better.

Emma was so consumed in her task that she almost avoided seeing Mr Jones as he peered at her curiously through the open door of the cabin. She remained focused on the broom, however, and not on his eyes as he frowned in her direction.

And, really, he had no right to cast those sorts of glances around. Emma wasn't someone who would have campaigned for temperance by any means, and yet she was still dismayed at the incontrovertible evidence piling up that Mr Jones drank. Drink made people unpredictable; she knew that first-hand. It made men carry out actions that they would later regret. Like consort with saloon girls and whatever else Mr Jones may have considered a suitable past-time prior to Emma's arrival. Gambling, most likely.

It was a sorry state of affairs, and Emma was sorely tempted to give in and wallow in self-pity. But she refrained, because what good would it really do? Sure, you could repent in leisure all you liked, but that saying assumed you had the leisure time to spare for it. It was better, surely, that she merely set herself to work and try hard to keep the household running, as she'd promised she would.

And she was determined to keep her promises.

She finished sweeping and gave the stove a wary glance. She cleared out the ashes and lit a fire but didn't feel much like doing battle with the thing in order to make something for luncheon. Instead she pulled out some of the recently purchased food and placed it on the table. There was no serving ware, of course, in amongst the small collection of dishes that belonged in the cabin, but, after some careful deliberation, Emma retrieved a small silver tray from her trunk and placed the cheese on that before heading outside to find where Mr Jones and Henry had disappeared to.

Emma found them behind the chicken coop, Henry clutching his hand in pain and, in a flash, all thoughts about the precariousness of her situation were banished as she was consumed by nothing anger and guilt. Her desire to hurt the stupid man who had allowed Henry to hurt himself was almost frightening in its intensity. It was probably just lucky for Mr Jones that the hammer had been placed far beyond her reach and that she was too busy examining Henry anyway, checking that he was still intact because she couldn't bear it if she had waited all this time to have him and then he ended up broken.

He would never have been allowed anywhere near a hammer when he was in Regina's care.

But, even if Emma held back from actual physical violence she still couldn't stop herself lashing out with her tongue, reminding Mr Jones that he carried injuries far worse than Henry's, probably caused by his own carelessness. Most likely he was drinking when he lost his hand. Perhaps, she thought, he'd even been drinking now; a few mouthfuls snuck in while she was in the cabin. How could she possibly leave a man like that in charge of her son? He was nothing but a drunkard, a wastrel, a careless, thoughtless person and the last kind of man she wanted to be joined in matrimony with.

She heard Henry's assertions that he was fine but it took a few moments and several deep breaths for her to dampen down the fire burning inside her. Everything –  _everything_  – was spiralling out of Emma's control and she feared that if she didn't stop herself now it would all come flooding out and there would be every chance she would drown Mr Jones in a torrent of abuse.

Although Emma did wonder, briefly, if that would make her feel a little better. She remembered, with mixed emotions, what Regina's household was like and the terrible occasions when Regina let fly with her tongue due to some transgression by a maid, or worse, by one of the guests. Emma could guess, even then, that running a boarding house was not how Regina had planned to live out her days, and giving vent to her fury was her way of showing them all that she still controlled her world.

But it didn't make Regina happy. And Emma suspected that however much she desired the release that only a good harangue could bring the same would be true for her as well.

She held her tongue, and proffered lunch, allowing herself a minor complaint about the stove that Mr Jones answered quite evenly.

 _Perhaps the alcohol dulls his temper?_  Emma pondered this as she walked away from Henry and Mr Jones. She paused as she reached the corner of the cabin and turned back to watch them, from a safe distance this time.

It was, she told herself, because she was still concerned about leaving Henry in Mr Jones' sole charge and not because she felt guilty for the barb she threw at him, the one that made him wear the expression he'd sported while being accosted by the girl in green. When he had looked beaten and bowed and far older than he should.

She shouldn't feel guilty for that because, goodness' knows, he deserved her ire after the spectacle that morning. But she could not help herself and the guilt came to her anyway.

Mixed with just a tiny bit of pleasure at the thought the girl in green certainly won't be seeking out his company any time soon. Not after the way she'd spoken to him. And while Emma may have been the cause of the ruction between them, she didn't believe she would feel at all guilty for that.

She watched as Henry picked up the hammer again and resisted the very real urge to go over and tell him, in no uncertain terms, to put it back on the ground. But she was trying very hard to be the mother of an almost-grown boy and she doubted that her words will be welcomed by Henry; not after he'd tried so hard to dismiss her concern just moments before.

He no doubt wanted to impress Mr Jones and she could not fault him for that. They each had to find their own way of making the best of their situation and she thought that at least Henry was smiling and no one had lost a wooden eye.

She'd forgotten Regina had ever had that guest until Henry had told the story on the wagon ride back from town. It was something he'd shared with her on one of her all too rare visits to see him on a day off from Dr Hopper's. And now, of course, he was sharing it with Mr Jones.

It hurt, a little, to realise that at one time, and not that long ago, she was just as much a stranger to Henry as Mr Jones was now.

But she was distracted from her sombre thoughts by the sight of Henry wielding the hammer, two-handed while Mr Jones held the nail against a board on the chicken coop. Henry's aim appeared to be a little off the mark and she could see Mr Jones wince as the hammer approached, his shoulders rising almost to his ears as he no doubt anticipated the hammer connecting with his hand.

Thankfully, Henry missed. Or, rather, his hammer found its true target and Mr Jones' hand was spared, although his shoulders did not relax until the moment when the nail was placed firmly enough into the board that he could let go and merely watch Henry finish the task.

And, when the nailing was complete, she watched as Henry's face broke into a wide smile and, although she could only see Mr Jones' profile, he appeared to be smiling as well. It was their own little private moment, and she felt like an intruder into it, but she still couldn't look away.

It didn't make any sense, she decided, after watching them begin the same process again with another nail. Someone as clearly careless as Mr Jones shouldn't show such care for a boy he barely knew, a boy he'd met the day before. And the fact he did, Emma reasoned, should make her feel more comfortable with the knowledge that she was stuck here for the foreseeable future.

But it didn't, somehow. Emma was still wary of Mr Jones, still wondered when his temper would show through again. In some ways it would be easier if that side of him was on display all the time. This was far worse; the endless twilight of never quite being sure if you're safe or not.

She had been down that road before and wasn't in any particular hurry to live her life on eggshells again. Not just to dance around some man who was so careless with himself and with others.

Still, the meal she had provided them was eaten, but, had Henry not been present, it would have been a silent affair. He was the only one who contributed to the conversation, providing a, quite literally, blow by blow account of the work on the chicken coop. Mr Jones appeared to be content to let Henry do all the talking and Emma was afraid to comment or ask questions, fearing that any attempt to bring up the hammering would be taken as another criticism of Mr Jones.

Although she could not deny she was still a little shaken by the experience of seeing Henry hurt, however minor the actual injury turned out to be. Emma wasn't sure if the responsibility of motherhood weighed so heavily on every woman with a child, or if her particular circumstances made her more susceptible to guilt and worry. But, however the feelings had arrived, she found it difficult to subsequently chase them away and her concern over Henry twisted up with the worry over whether Mr Jones was to be trusted with him.

She didn't eat much, despite missing breakfast that morning.

Mr Jones' appetite had not been quashed, however, and she was thankful that he was too busy eating to make much eye contact with her. He did examine the tray she had placed on the table, tracing the pattern with his finger, and she half-expected that he might question its provenance, but nothing was said.

Clearly they were far past the point of making idle chit-chat around the table. And she shouldn't care, or, at least, she believed she shouldn't care. She hadn't married him for the opportunities for stimulating conversation, after all. She'd married him so Henry would have somewhere to live.

But, all the same, the silence was a little disappointing. It merely intensified the very great chasm that existed between herself and Mr Jones and it appeared that not even the provision of food could breach it now.

Obviously he was tired of her already. And, really, why shouldn't he be? He may have burned his bridges with the girl in green but, no doubt, there were a dozen other girls hidden away inside the saloon who could be bought just as easily.

Except that money was clearly a problem for Mr Jones, and perhaps that was the cause of the argument in the street, rather than any perceived slight over a new wife. Emma desperately wished that she had never seen the pair of them, although she knew that ignorance was hardly bliss. No, it was better than she knew what she was dealing with rather than living under the illusion that she was here because he valued her in any way.

When the meal had been eaten and cleared away she watched as Henry hovered near the door, turning from Mr Jones to herself and back again. She wasn't surprised that he was feeling torn between them, not after they had spent most of the day studiously ignoring each other, save for a few brief interactions filled with tension and simmering anger. It was hardly the calm, peaceful home that she'd imagined she was giving Henry when she agreed to come to Kansas.

The cabin suddenly felt airless and close and she grabbed a pail, hoping that the pretext of fetching more water would suffice as a reason for stepping outside.

She made it to the pump at the end of the yard and then found the process of actually drawing the water quite cathartic. Certainly the ache in her arms when she'd finished helped to banish the constant sense of unease that she felt anytime Mr Jones was within her sight. He infuriated her more than anyone she'd ever met, and yet she still wished for...she wasn't sure. Some sign from him that she was more than just the woman his brother had left him with.

By the time the pail was full, Emma's thoughts were dark. Her annoyance at, not just Mr Jones, but at herself as well, settled over her head like a dark cloud on a winter's afternoon.

Distracted as she was by her thoughts and with the water she was carrying, it was a shock when she realised that Mr Jones had been watching her, and that she'd nearly walked straight into him on her return journey back to the cabin.

Anger and indignation rose in her throat again and she covered it up by keeping her eyes solely on the pail and the water which threatened to slosh over the edge on account of her sudden stop. As long as none spilled, she thought, it would be alright. She could take a deep breath and find out what it was Mr Jones needed.

But some water did escape onto the dry ground and, when she finally found her voice Emma heard that her words were tinged with the anger she'd failed to push from the forefront of her mind. "Did you need anything, Mr Jones?"

It wasn't that she wanted to have an argument in the middle of the yard, but the tension was becoming draining and, quite frankly, it was all Mr Jones' fault anyway. So any harshness in her tone was warranted, as far as Emma was concerned.

He didn't immediately reply, so she dared to sneak a look at his face while she waited for a response. She expected to see the black look he threw at her in the heat of his anger earlier that morning, but he looked far from angry with her. One heavy eyebrow was raised and his lips curved upwards slightly, almost as though he was amused by her.

Emma didn't find anything remotely amusing about the act of carrying water across a yard.

"I was simply going to ask if you wanted to know where I'd be, in case you wanted to watch me again," he remarked after the silence had become drawn-out to the point of being uncomfortable.

"Watch you?"

"I saw you. Before. You didn't do a very good job of hiding." Now Mr Jones was making no attempt to keep the amusement from his face.

Emma bristled under his gaze. It was all very well for him to find these things amusing but he clearly didn't understand what her situation was like, what her situation had always been like. Thrust into someone else's house, trying to work out what the rules were, trying, desperately, to understand the people she'd suddenly found herself relying on… _of course_  she was going to observe them. How else would she learn anything?

And, really, he had no reason to expect anything less. Between the girl in the street and the alcohol and the injury to Henry, there was nothing –  _nothing_  – about him which didn't reek of carelessness, of thoughtlessness, of the possibility that he could casually ruin everything she'd worked so hard for.

"I wasn't attempting to hide," Emma replied, feeling the heat that burned behind her eyes threatening to show in her face. Did he think she could forget the precariousness of her position simply because she found him appealing to look at? That he could charm her as easily as he charmed the girl in the shop into giving him credit?

Her attraction to Mr Jones was something Emma was certain she would never confess to the man himself. She could barely even acknowledge in her own mind that, no matter how worried she was about the moral character of the man she'd married, there was something about his outward appearance that threatened to spark the embers of desire inside of her.

Mr Jones shrugged, but the smile on his face remained. "I suppose it's no mind. After all, we're married. You should be able to look all you want."

"I was merely checking on Henry," she retorted, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible and not as indignant as she felt. "He had been injured, after all."

Mr Jones' expression lost some of its joviality at Emma's comment and she briefly regretted her words. But, she reminded herself, he had brought up the topic. And Henry had, indeed, been injured, however inconsequentially. She wasn't saying anything that wasn't true.

Although there were, perhaps, a few things that she was keeping to herself.

Emma waited to see what would happen next. Mr Jones was still standing in front of her and she didn't much like the idea of obviously stepping around him. She hoped that he would move of his own volition, and quickly, before things became tense again.

Right at that moment she had no desire to face his temper again, fearing that she might very well lose her own. It had been a trying day, and that was, quite frankly, putting it mildly.

But Mr Jones kept searching her face, as though there was a book, or a map, printed into her skin. It made Emma deeply uncomfortable and she turned her attention to the pail of water, ostensibly so she could shift its weight from one hand to the other, just as he said "You know, you could try something new…and trust me."

The words made something snap inside of Emma and the threads of her temper, already dangerously frayed, gave way and fell apart completely. His continuing inability to see this situation for what it really was made Emma see red in a way she hadn't for years and years.

"I am not certain what you believe this is," she hissed, knowing her voice sounded venomous but feeling it preferable to the other alternative, which was to shout her accusations as loudly as she could in the hope that her point would be made. "But I have done nothing  _but_  trust you since we came here. Into whose care have I committed myself and my son? Mr Jones, I simply cannot take a chance that I have been wrong about you."

She hoped that would shame him and make him see that none of this was her doing. It was his own carelessness, or, at least, the potential to be so, that made it imperative that Emma be watchful and wary and concern herself with whether Henry was in danger.

But her words did not seem to have that effect on the man. Instead of looking contrite his expression softened to one of concern. "You think I would let something happen to you or to Henry?" he asked.

"I…" Emma wasn't sure how to answer that question. Telling the truth might set off a chain of hurtful recriminations that would irreparably damage whatever relationship she had at the moment with the man she'd married.

But she didn't think she could refuse to answer him either. "I have to be careful," she replied in the end. It wasn't much of an answer, but at least it was somewhat the truth even if Emma left out the part about how careful didn't always equate to safe in these situations.

It was a lesson she'd learnt early in life.

She watched Mr Jones, closely, to see what he would do next. She half-expected that his temper would flare up again, a match for hers and more. But there was no flash of anger in his blue eyes, there was…concern.

And that was the dreadful moment when Emma knew what was coming. He would open his mouth and protest that he would never let anything happen to her or to Henry, that she could trust him, that he  _cared_.

But none of it would be true, just as it had never been true when people had promised her such things before. And she had no intention of being led down the garden path by a man again.

So, instead, she adopted a tactic that had served her well in the past; strike out in the aim of inflicting hurt before anyone hurt her.

"But you're right," she continued, despite the fact that Mr Jones had opened his mouth and clearly had something to say to her. "We are married, and I feel that I should…apologise…for the fact that it has obviously caused some friction between you and your friend."

"My…friend?" The concern in Mr Jones' face had been wiped away by confusion.

"Yes. The woman, this morning. In town. It was…more than obvious that there is now some bad feeling there, and I am sorry if I'm the cause of it." Emma kept her gaze steady, waiting to see what Mr Jones' reaction would be. It was a risky manoeuvre but, right then, Emma was certain that she would rather face the man angry than concerned and on the verge of making promises he will never, ever keep.

But Mr Jones didn't become angry, although the look that crossed his face as his jaw tightened and his lips pressed together was dark. For a moment she thought that he would say something to her, refute his relationship with the woman, perhaps even stick to his original plan and reiterate that she and Henry had nothing to fear on his watch, but he didn't.

Once again, he simply walked away from her.

And Emma should have felt triumphant, she thought. Or, at least, pleased. Her plan had worked, she had deflected his concern and maintained some distance between them. A reminder that, although they may be husband and wife, they are not friends and she would be watching him carefully for any sign that he will hurt her.

But she felt nothing but sad and angry, mostly at herself. The behaviours of her past seemed doomed to repeat themselves endlessly and now she was trapped here, lashing out at the man she was tied to for the rest of her life.

Mr Jones disappeared from sight after that and Emma found that Henry was in her charge for the afternoon. It soon became patently clear that he would rather have been with Mr Jones, however, as he continually gazed out into the horizon hoping, no doubt, to catch a glimpse of the man he so admired.

Sadly, all Emma could offer him was work in the vegetable garden they had located behind the barn. It appeared to need a considerable amount of weeding, although gardens were not an area where Emma felt particularly confident and, several times, she waivered on whether she was discarding a weed or something entirely more edible.

Henry was no help on those matters, preferring to ask whether they could plant the seeds for the apple tree. As much as she would have liked to concentrate on the garden, especially given her slightly exciting discovery that there were a few potatoes and carrots hidden in amongst the rows of plants, Emma was also desperate to keep Henry happy.

After they had ventured, Emma a little timidly perhaps, into the barn to retrieve a spade, Henry picked out the location for the tree, close beside the cabin, and then set to work trying to dig a hole. It took a while before he'd admit to his mother that the work was harder than he'd expected, and a few minutes more before he allowed Emma to take over.

She wished she knew how deep you were meant to plant apple seeds, but it wasn't something she'd ever needed to know before. Regina might have been a valuable source of information, but Emma was hardly likely to admit that to Henry.

Henry had no such qualms, however. "Aunt Regina would be able to tell us if we're doing this correctly," he announced, as Emma stopped digging and braced herself on the spade.

"I think we've probably got a deep enough hole now." Emma kept her voice low and hoped Henry didn't notice that she was refusing to talk about Regina. That part of their lives was gone now, dead and buried along with the woman herself.

Although there was no denying that the apple tree, should it actually grow, would be a constant reminder.

When the seeds were in the ground, and they'd sprinkled some water over the earth they had laid on top of them, Emma and Henry stood silently and regarded their work, marking this as some solemn occasion of remembrance. It was an odd feeling, Emma thought, to be so inextricably linked to someone who, in other circumstances, would have meant nothing to her. It was only the fact that she kept Henry for so long which prolonged her acquaintance with Regina and made the other woman a large part of her life for ten years.

If she had never given birth on Regina's kitchen floor then things would have been considerably different, she reasoned.

But the past was the past, and could not be changed no matter how much Emma might have wished it so. And there were many moments from her past that she would alter if someone gave her the chance to do so.

But not Henry. Never Henry.

"What are you thinking about, Mama?" Henry's voice broke into her reverie.

"I am…considering whether or not the seeds will need more water." She looked sideways at Henry and, from the way his face scrunched at her words, she strongly suspected that he was more than aware of the fact she was far from telling the truth. But she had no desire to share all of her secrets with him, and no intention of elaborating on her statement.

After a while Henry looked as though he was satisfied with her answer and he nodded a couple of times and went back to his solemn contemplation of the disturbed earth. The silence wasn't awkward, but it was all-consuming and it did make the scuffing sound of Mr Jones' boots on the earth as he rounded the side of the cabin louder and more sudden than they might otherwise have been.

He looked a little surprised, Emma thought, to find Henry and herself standing this way, staring at what resembled bare earth. There was a moment of awkward silence which Emma expected Henry to fill, but he seemed far too interested in the two adults who were now standing facing each other. In the end Mr Jones spoke first, holding his hook in front of him and allowing Emma to see that there was something dangling from it.

"Rabbit?" she asked, a little stupidly.

"I did, uh…promise," Mr Jones replied, looking away from her.

"You did?" Emma tried to think back to when that might have occurred, but she couldn't remember it at all and, of all the promises she wanted him desperately to keep, the one about bringing her a dead rabbit wasn't something she'd pinned her hopes on.

"To…eat?" he ventured slowly, as though Emma might be from some strange and foreign land where the customs were different. And, certainly, rabbit was not often served at Dr Hopper's house and he employed a cook for several nights a week anyway, meaning Emma was mostly spared kitchen duty, but even so.

She did understand what the rabbit was for.

But she held her tongue rather than tell Mr Jones this. "Thank you?" she replied, although she inadvertently made it sound like a question which left her disappointed in her own reaction. She had been intending to return to her earlier tactic of gratitude hoping, perhaps forlornly, that this time it will provoke a more pleasing reaction from Mr Jones.

Emma was almost completely certain that sounding as though she is unsure whether he should be thanked will not have the desired effect.

Mr Jones nodded, and then there was another awkward moment as they both regarded the rabbit he was still holding between them. Emma was unsure if she should try to remove it from his hook, or wait for Mr Jones to do so, and he appeared to be waiting for her to do something.

In the end Mr Jones lifted it from the hook and passed it across to Emma. It was warm and limp in her hand and she resisted the urge to feel a little sorry for the poor thing. She couldn't afford to act like the soft, city woman she feared Mr Jones thought she was.

But, in the absence of making a comment about the rabbit's demise, Emma was stuck with nothing else to say. Mr Jones, for once, hadn't run away from her as soon as he could, and she wondered if there was some other remark she was supposed to make in response to being handed a dead rabbit.

Emma thought that even Regina, who was usually an expert on what to do in most social occasions, might have struggled to find the correct way to address this situation.

And then she realised why it seemed so quiet. Henry, who she had expected to break the news of the planting of the apple tree seeds, was standing idly by, merely observing herself and Mr Jones, a slight frown on his face.

Emma wasn't at all sure what might have provoked the reaction from Henry, nor what she could do to mollify him. Perhaps he felt that she hadn't been sufficiently grateful for the rabbit and wanted her to say something else to Mr Jones?

"I'm sure it will be delicious," she ventured, slowly.

"I'll leave that up to you," he replied, and then, this time, he did leave her standing there, still holding the rabbit, and with Henry now scowling outright.

"I'm certain it will be…edible," Emma told him, hoping that she wasn't later contradicted by the meal she managed to prepare.

Henry sighed, and continued scowling, not making eye contact with Emma.

"Henry? What on earth is the matter?"

His head twisted to look at her. "I just…Mama, did you say?"

"Say, what?" Emma worried what it was she'd left out of her conversation with Mr Jones. Perhaps Henry's years with Regina had left him with better manners that she could ever have herself and he was privy to the correct way to thank someone when they handed you a dead animal.

Henry pursed his lips and looked annoyed. "Say that I couldn't help get the rabbit."

"No, I…no I didn't."

Henry did not look appeased. "You told him I was going to school, and now I didn't get to learn to shoot." The accusation in his tone couldn't be missed; he thought that, once again, Emma had made things difficult with Mr Jones and that she'd deprived Henry of some pleasure in the process.

"But we planted the apple tree." Emma wished she didn't sound as desperate as she did, but she was struggling to understand this sudden outburst of Henry's. He'd been fine up until this moment, excited about the things going on around him. She didn't know why killing some poor rabbit was that important to him.

Except that he thought she'd ruined something and that made her heart feel hot and hard in her chest.

Henry sighed, loud enough that Emma could hear. "Yes, we did Mama," he agreed, but he sounded so sad about that fact that she could barely swallow the lump in her throat.

"I had better get started on this," Emma replied, quickly, holding up the rabbit and turning back towards the cabin. The day was simply getting worse and worse; Mr Jones was a lost cause and she couldn't change that, Henry was mad with her and she didn't know how to fix that, nothing was going as it should and she was stuck trying to figure out the best way to strip a rabbit of its skin.

Right at that moment, she'd almost swap places with the thing.

Preparing the rabbit was not an elegant process, and Emma ended up covered in far too much blood and gore for her own liking, but neither Mr Jones nor Henry came to see the state she was in and she had achieved her aim of being able to actually get the meat from the rabbit into the cooking pot.

She cleaned herself as best she could, removed her soiled apron and waited to see who showed up for dinner.

Henry arrived first, leaving Emma to assume that Mr Jones had fled their presence again, or perhaps gone to drown his sorrows. Either way, unless she wanted to go in search of him herself, or send Henry on such an errand, she was stuck waiting.

It wasn't too long before he stepped inside the cabin, looking far happier than the still-sullen Henry did. Probably it was the prospect of the food she was cooking that made him so, Emma reasoned, but, all the same, it was nice to have someone in the room who didn't look at her like she was some kind of villainess.

Henry, when pressed, said grace, but remained silent after that, poking his dinner around the plate rather than eating it. After a few minutes Mr Jones clearly noticed the difference in Henry's demeanour from previous meals as well. Emma watched as his eating slowed and he sent a few worried glances in Henry's direction, followed by a questioning look at Emma.

She wasn't sure what to make of Mr Jones' concern for Henry. It was bad enough that she already felt hurt at the way Henry was behaving, she really didn't need Mr Jones throwing concerned glances her way and expecting her to make it all better when she didn't know how.

Clearly, being a parent looked a lot easier when you weren't one yourself. Of course Mr Jones would think she'd have some magic word or phrase she could say to make everything alright for Henry again.

But she had no ideas on the subject at all.

Dinner continued on, in silence. Emma wasn't completely unhappy with the way the rabbit had turned out, but she chewed her food with a dogged determination to not accidentally starve herself rather than out of any great enjoyment for the meal.

Mr Jones had seconds.

Henry began to eat, slowly, chewing every mouthful for a long time.

Unsure of what else to do to remedy the situation, and feeling a little exposed by Mr Jones' rather searching looks across the table at her, Emma spoke up. "I…did say."

Henry frowned, and put his spoon down. "You did?"

Emma could see Mr Jones frowning as well, trying to make sense of the conversation, but she avoided his gaze and carried on. "I did. I…didn't realise you were so set on going with Mr Jones, and, after what happened with the hammer…Henry, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be around a gun."

She risked a glance at Mr Jones and saw a flash of understanding in his face. "But, Mama," Henry protested. "I wanted to learn."

"I know," she replied, as gently as she could. "But there's still time to learn lots of things here. You don't have to rush to do everything."

Mr Jones nodded. "Aye. Perhaps next time, lad." He turned to look at Emma. "I'll make sure you don't do anything rash."

Henry's face lit up and Emma's heart sunk. So much for keeping him safe. "I promise I'll be careful," Henry said, to both of them.

"Of course you will," Mr Jones agreed, but Emma remained silent, unsure of whether she'd done the right thing. Certainly Henry's mood, and appetite, had been greatly improved by her falsehood, but she'd now ended up almost agreeing to something she would never have allowed under other circumstances.

She felt a little manipulated, and the fact that Mr Jones gave her a small smile across the table didn't really make her feel any better. He had, after all, gone hunting without any thought of whether to take Henry or not, and Emma had been stuck taking the fall for the decision.

"We'll see," she murmured, but her words fell on deaf ears. Henry had regained his good humour and was now enjoying an animated conversation with Mr Jones about where the best place to shoot a rabbit was. Emma busied herself with clearing away the remains of their meal and then, when she was without any further tasks and Henry had moved on to sharing stories from his cowboy book with Mr Jones, she gathered her shawl and stepped outside in the hope that the cooler twilight air would clear her head.

It did not, and she found that she was once again alone with her thoughts, except that this night, instead of dwelling on the fact she'd be sharing a bed with Mr Jones, she was concerned with Henry, and the prospect of sharing him with Mr Jones.

She did not realise how close her impromptu stroll around the yard had taken her towards the hut where Mr Jones resided, until she heard his footsteps behind her. Emma turned around just as Mr Jones said "Was there something you wanted, Mrs Swan?"

There were many things Emma wanted right then, but she doubted he could provide any of them. "No. I was merely getting some air."

She hadn't expected much of a response from Mr Jones to her remark, and had started to walk away when he suddenly said "Good."

"Good?"

"I was concerned you had come to…remonstrate with me again." Emma must have looked as perplexed as she felt at Mr Jones' comment, and he continued. "About Henry."

"For leaving him behind?" Mr Jones nodded. "I fear only Henry would hold you accountable for that, although he thinks that I was the culprit."

In the fading light of the day Emma watched as Mr Jones considered what to say next. "I did not think you would allow him to accompany me."

"No. You were correct. I would most certainly not have wanted Henry anywhere near a gun. Hammers have proven dangerous enough today." At that Mr Jones gave a small smile and Emma had to resist, quite strongly, the urge to smile back. After all, Henry being injured was hardly a thing to be happy about.

"But now he believes that you will allow him to accompany me in the future," Mr Jones pointed out.

It was on the tip of Emma's tongue to assure him that it would not be the case, and to reiterate, once again, that she was Henry's mother and would make all the decisions concerning his welfare. But the temptation to have a conversation with someone regarding her fears for Henry, to pretend that Mr Jones actually cared about them was just too great and Emma continued speaking.

"He does, and it was not the outcome I hoped for but I fear that I have been…well. He has backed me into a corner, somewhat, now that I am the villain of the piece." Emma looked down at the ground and spoke quickly, as though hesitating would mean the words would tangle around her tongue. "I fear that I am often lost as to the correct course of action as far as Henry is concerned, and my even greater fear is that I have failed him on this occasion."

"You were apart for a long time." There was no accusation in the tone Mr Jones used, but the words cut Emma all the same.

"Yes. And I cannot change the past now."

"But…you went back for him. He will remember that."

"I wish I could be as certain as you are, Mr Jones."

There was silence for a moment, apart from the far-off call of some animal, and then Mr Jones spoke again. "You did not need to have Henry blame yourself. You could have, quite rightly, said that I just left without word."

Emma could not deny that he was speaking the truth, but she was sorely lacking in an explanation for her choice. Instead she remained silent on the subject, fearful that she may give away too much.

Mr Jones did not press her for an answer, however. "I did mean it, Mrs Swan. When I said I wouldn't let anything happen to Henry."

"People say a great many things, Mr Jones. Not all of them come to fruition, despite whatever good intentions lay behind them."

Emma half-suspected that Mr Jones would take the vehemence with which she had last spoken as some kind of dismissal, and she found she couldn't blame him in the least. But he remained where he was and merely attempted to continue the conversation, changing the subject away from Henry. "The rabbit was…dinner was very good. Thank-you."

"You're welcome." Emma found she was faltering a little under the sincerity of Mr Jones' gaze and it irked her. It was all very well to make promises and lay praise at her feet but she had yet to see any evidence that he meant what he said.

 _Careless_ , rang through her mind again and again. He would be careless with her as everyone had been, and toss her and Henry aside when the novelty of rabbit stew for dinner and a boy who thought he could show him the world had subsided.

Mr Jones seemed uncomfortable as well now, and he shuffled his feet and scratched at the back of his neck. "Liam…he struggled with that stove too. He didn't manage to make it submit quite so well, though."

Emma's face flushed a little, but she was determined not to be swayed by the praise. No doubt it was another tactic on Mr Jones' part to win her over. First charm, now this. "Goodnight, Mr Jones." She stepped past him, towards the cabin.

"Mrs Swan?" he called out and she turned around.

"Yes?"

"I…she's not my friend. The woman. I can't say as anyone in this town would call themselves that. I had Liam…and, well." Mr Jones stopped talking, apparently waiting from some response from Emma.

But she didn't have one. While she might have doubted the sincerity of some of his earlier comments regarding herself, personal insights such as this were just as foreign to her. All her instincts told her that she needed to keep Mr Jones at arm's length and then the hurt, when it came, would not be so great.

She'd been fooled once, and she liked to think she was smart enough to avoid such an unhappy outcome again.

"Goodnight, Mr Jones," she said again, and then she walked back to the cabin without turning to look at him again, pretending very hard that she did not hear the unmistakeable clink of a bottle against metal coming from the hut where he resided.


	9. Chapter 9

Killian had not intended to start drinking the moment the door of the hut had shut, blocking Mrs Swan from his gaze. But the bottle was there, and it was full, and no matter how pleasing it had been to speak to Mrs Swan without her merely telling him, once again, that she thought he was a terrible excuse for a man, he was still left with the black thoughts swirling around in his head.

And the best way to chase them away was with the drink.

It wasn't something he was proud of, but it was merely one entry on a very long list of things he wasn't proud of himself for and sometimes that list got too long to dwell on.

But drinking, well, that put paid to any self-loathing thoughts that Killian might be tempted to dredge up. And if he drank enough, then even just any kind of thinking became difficult.

Unfortunately, it didn't make for a good start to the next morning and Killian felt groggy and out-of-sorts when he heard Henry's voice calling him from just outside the door. "Mr Jones? Are you in there?"

"Aye, but just…" Henry didn't appear to have the patience to listen to the rest of Killian's request to wait for a moment and he pushed the door of the hut open, letting in a burst of watery, but still unwelcome, sunlight.

"Mama said if the cows need milking, then I should do it before breakfast, and she's making breakfast now," he announced, as way of explanation for his rather abrupt entry.

"Oh. Aye." Killian had no idea what the time was, but he was certain he should have been up for an hour or more by now. Liam would never have let him sleep for so long, although his methods of waking Killian up were decidedly more unpleasant than Henry's.

Still, he almost wished for a bucket of cold water about now as his head was foggy and there was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He had to settle for splashing some of the water from the basin in the corner over his face, although the chest it was situation on seemed a lot further away from the bed than it had done the night before as Killian shuffled towards it.

The water helped, but only slightly and Killian mostly wished that he didn't have an audience as he tried to piece himself back together. The problem, or benefit, depending on how you viewed the situation, of drinking himself to sleep was that he was still dressed this morning, and his brace and hook were in place, although long since past the point of being comfortable.

Still, Killian was glad he could be considered somewhat ready to start the day, especially as Henry was starting to look around the little hut with considerable curiosity. There wasn't much to see, save the bed and a few items that were strewn around the place. "Just…be a little careful with that, lad." Of all the things that could have taken Henry's attention it had to be  _that_.

"I will be," Henry assured him, as he placed the watch back on the bed. "Is it yours?"

"No," Killian answered, without thinking, as he straightened his braces. And then he realised what he'd said. "I mean, yes. Well. Now it is, anyway."

Henry nodded in a way that suggested he understood. "Mama has a watch that belonged to my father. She says I'll have it one day. It's packed in her trunk, I think."

"That's…" Killian stopped and looked over at the watch that had been Liam's. Nice didn't seem the right word to use in the situation as he knew full well that inheriting a watch didn't make up for the actual person.

But Henry clearly wasn't looking for Killian to make much conversation, or, at least, he had other topics he wanted to pursue. "Mr Jones? Did you like having a brother?"

"I…suppose. I didn't really know anything else. I mean, he was older than I was." It seemed to Killian only a slightly less odd question than the one concerning the chickens and their eggs the day before, because, once again, Henry's musings had wandered into matters that Killian had never particularly been inclined to contemplate.

Liam had always been there. Until the day he wasn't.

"He was a good brother though." He hoped that Henry wasn't going to ask for details of how, exactly, Liam had been a good brother. There were things that he just didn't feel up to discussing right at the present.

It was all very well drinking to push away the thoughts that hounded him in the night, but in the morning his emotions felt raw, as though he had scrubbed too hard and left an open wound on his heart.

Henry looked a little thoughtful for a moment and Killian took the opportunity to pull on his boots and begin the rather complicated process of tying the laces, thankful that his unexpected guest didn't seem to notice the difficulties he was having.

"I suppose…" Henry mused, slowly. "That I'll be a big brother when I get a brother. Or a sister."

Killian concentrated much harder on his task, perhaps, than even someone with only one hand and a hook should do. He didn't have the faintest idea how to respond to Henry's comment because it was so unlikely it would ever happen and the fact that the boy couldn't tell that it wasn't going to happen was a gap in Henry's education that Killian really didn't want to contemplate filling.

Where was Mrs Swan asserting her rights as his mother now?

Henry, unfortunately, seemed intent on pursuing this particular conversation. "Won't I?" he prompted.

"I…suppose…" Killian hoped that a vague agreement would suffice. But clearly Henry was not to be underestimated when he wanted something. It was, perhaps, a lesson Killian should have learned the previous night.

"You don't sound sure," Henry stated, with no small amount of accusation in his voice.

"I…" Truth be told he wasn't sure, at all, what it was that Henry really wanted from him. He couldn't give him any assurances that what he wished for was actually going to happen. Ever.

And he certainly wasn't about to explain to Henry why he was never going to get the sibling he seemed to so desperately crave. It wasn't something Killian could remember ever not knowing, courtesy of a too-small shack and many moments of his childhood that he had no wish to recall.

But whatever had been going on in the boarding house where Henry had resided, in between the careless maids and the lost eyes, it quite plainly hadn't educated the boy in the simple facts of life.

"You don't think I'd be any good? At being a brother?" Henry asked, his voice rising as he made no attempt to hide his now rather fervent desire for Killian's blessing.

"I think you'll be splendid." Killian hoped that he sounded more than definite this time, and that it would be the end of the conversation. Henry, however, didn't seem appeased. When Killian glanced over at him there was a deep crease in his forehead making him look like strikingly like his mother.

Not particularly wishing to be scrutinised any longer, Killian stood up again. "Let's just go and see to those cows, shall we?"

Henry nodded, and Killian hoped the matter would be left at that. If nothing else, he reasoned, Henry was bound to get a rather rapid education when it came time to borrow a bull to put in with the cows.

The task of milking seemed to move Henry's thoughts on to other matters and Killian hoped that the matter of siblings would not be brought up again. He did not much enjoy the idea of Henry holding him to account for breaking a promise he had never made in the first instance. Not after witnessing Mrs Swan finding herself in almost exactly the same position the previous evening.

She was, perhaps, not the only person who wasn't entirely certain how to manage Henry.

When the milking was completed, Henry took the pail inside to Mrs Swan and Killian lingered for a little longer than was necessary in order to finish up the tasks he still had to do. It wasn't that he was reluctant to face Mrs Swan in the cold light of the morning, but there was no denying that as much as he desired to spend more time in her company, he always felt a little lacking when he did so.

And maybe he was just a little bit reluctant to face himself in the cold, green gaze of Mrs Swan.

By the time Killian entered the cabin Henry was already eating and Mrs Swan was busy and had her back to him. There was food already placed on the table and he sat down in front of it.

Once again, Mrs Swan had given him a boiled egg but, when he peered at it a little closer he noticed one difference. This morning it was already peeled.

Killian looked sideways at Henry but he had already begun on his breakfast and it was impossible to tell if he'd been given the same treatment. It seemed a little ridiculous he realised, to spend too long pondering the meaning of whether an egg had been peeled or not, but he had hoped, after the brief words they'd exchanged the night before, that Mrs Swan was starting to see him as a friend and definitely not as someone else she had to mother. Or, worse, a cripple.

But last night now seemed a little far-away to him, the effect of the drink he consumed, no doubt. Maybe he had been wrong about her. Maybe he had been wrong about everything.

Maybe he should just eat the bloody egg.

He was clearly too far lost in his own thoughts to notice Mrs Swan moving across the cabin and the cup suddenly appeared on the table in front of him, as if spirited there by unseen forces.

"I made coffee. You can try it... if you would like." He lifted his eyes to take in Mrs Swan's expression. If she had, indeed, softened a little towards him this morning it was almost impossible to tell by the way she was currently frowning.

Although after a moment it became clear that she was frowning at the cup, more than at himself. He hesitated, and then reached for it, which made her face relax, just a fraction. "It's not like I'm used to," she ventured, slowly.

"I'd assume nothing out here is," Killian replied.

"No." Mrs Swan sighed, heavily. "But I had thought that if I was promised coffee I would at least get something approaching it."

Her rather downcast demeanour made it obvious that the coffee was not the only thing Mrs Swan found lacking. She sank down into the chair opposite him and turned her gaze to the wall. Killian fought the urge to reach over and place his hand over hers, which were clasped on the table in front of her. It would have been too great a reminder of the sham of a marriage ceremony and the way her eyes had widened when she realised he no longer had two hands to hold hers with.

It would have served no purpose but to confirm her view that what she had received was hardly what she had been promised.

"Perhaps it will seem better in time," he ventured.

"Perhaps," Mrs Swan agreed, before standing up and leaving him to eat his breakfast alongside Henry. He tried to convince himself that her agreeing with him was a sign of her goodwill and confirmed the fact that she was beginning to view him in a more favourable light.

He failed miserably.

He left the cabin without attempting much in the way of conversation, save a brief thank-you for the meal provided and a comment that the coffee was perfectly acceptable. He walked out feeling less than content, both with himself and with the brief nod of the head that had been Mrs Swan's reply.

It would be easier, he thought, if he could be satisfied with stilted conversations regarding the quality of the coffee, but it was becoming plainly obvious that it was never going to be enough. As much as he might desire her, might hope for an invitation to her bed, might wish that he could provide far more assurance to Henry that his desires for a sibling had some chance of being fulfilled; what he really wanted above all else was her companionship. He had enjoyed the brief moments he'd spent in her company when she had confided in him the night before, he wished that she would seek him out and just…want to spend a few brief moments with him. If only for the simple reason that he would enjoy speaking with her; even at her most stern and intractable Killian found her an infinitely appealing presence.

He was lonely, and he had been for a long time. Killian hadn't realised just how far he had gone in shutting Liam out and keeping himself away from the world until, well. Until Liam had sent for Mrs Swan for the exact same reason Killian desired her now.

None of those thoughts made Killian feel particularly kind towards himself, and none of them helped him resolve the problem of how to get what he wanted from Mrs Swan. She'd locked herself away just as carefully as she'd clearly packed everything into that mysterious trunk of hers – he hadn't failed to miss the sudden appearance of silverware at the table the day before and it had made him curious about what other items she might have brought with her. And where she'd obtained them.

But it looked as though none of that information was going to be freely given by Mrs Swan and the thought irked him. Her talk of trusting him was only talk because her words had yet to be matched by her actions.

The next time he saw Mrs Swan she was walking across the yard directly towards him, clearly on a mission to speak to him. He could tell, he realised, by the way she carried herself, shoulders back and head up, although her gaze was to the side and on anything but himself. Killian had no doubt she had to steel herself to even seek him out and, while he may have hoped that the few minutes she had spent watching him the day before had been a sign that she was warming to him, he had to admit that her explanation of caution regarding Henry's well-being may have been closer to the mark.

Still, Henry was not around and now she was here, with him, and it might not be progress but it was something at any rate.

"Mr Jones? I was wondering if you might have any rope I could use?" Of all the things she could have chosen to speak to him about, this was not one he had expected and he was momentarily flummoxed.

"Rope?"

"Yes." Her gaze was steadier now, but her lips were still pressed together, the corners of her mouth turned down slightly. "That won't be a problem, will it?"

"No. I just…I didn't think you'd have much call for rope." He gestured towards the cabin uselessly, trying, and failing, to give some pretext for his confusion.

Mrs Swan looked on the verge of smiling at that. Ordinarily that might have pleased him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to find himself the object of her amusement. He may have been desirous of her company, but he was not prepared to throw away his pride. Not just yet, anyway.

"I confess, Mr Jones, I very rarely find the need to use rope when I am cooking, but perhaps if you would like it added to your meals in future I could accommodate you."

And there it was again, the little moment when Mrs Swan became the woman who intrigued him so, the one who had no qualm about speaking her mind. Only he wished that, in this instance, her mind wasn't quite so attuned to his rather embarrassing reaction.

"It seems a little puzzling, is all." Once again, Killian felt like he was on the back foot as much as he had been when Mrs Swan had first spied him trying to leave the station. He began to wish he had never questioned her request, just found some bloody rope and handed it to her when she'd asked.

"Yes, but you seem unduly suspicious of my need for it," Mrs Swan replied, sounding less amused now and more like she was trying to understand his reaction.

"Merely surprised." He hoped that was enough to assure her that he had no hidden agenda. "I hadn't anticipated your need to…secure anything with rope."

"Well. You can be rest assured, Mr Jones, that if I had thought I would have a need to secure… _anything_ , with rope, then I would have brought some with me. But, alas, I did not and will have to rely on your generosity. And I will be using it for hanging out laundry, so my purpose is much less nefarious than you seem to be imagining."

Killian was torn between enjoying the novelty of Mrs Swan interacting with him, and a need to take back some control over the direction of the conversation taking place. While he was deeply interested in finding out more about her he was in no hurry to be branded a fool and a simpleton in her mind simply because she had asked him for rope out of the blue.

"Am I to assume, then, that anything for which you did have a nefarious purpose would be secreted in that trunk you brought with you?"

She fixed him with an enigmatic smile. "I've merely packed what I thought would be useful. I'm sure most women who move out here do the same."

"No rope, though."

"No. No rope."

Mrs Swan looked at Killian expectantly, no doubt assuming that confirming that she did not have any rope would be enough to prompt him into action, but he stayed where he was, not quite ready to forgo the conversation just yet.

Mrs Swan sighed, and her eyes flashed with annoyance at his inaction while the way her lips pinched together made it clear how hard she was working to refrain from actually telling him how annoyed she was.

Killian wondered how long it would take her to reach the point where she felt the need to share her frustration with him, and whether he would be brave enough to push her to it.

He turned slowly towards the barn. "Shall I look forward to seeing what useful items you can produce, Mrs Swan?"

"I'll leave that up to you, Mr Jones."

He took two steps towards the barn and stopped again, before turning back to face Mrs Swan who had been following him, no doubt in the hope of finally being rewarded with the rope she had requested. She clearly hadn't anticipated his sudden change in direction, and he half expected that she might step back and away from him.

But Mrs Swan held her ground and merely waited, which simply made him want to continue with his delaying tactics all the more. She had existed in a bubble of self-sufficiency since she had arrived on the farm and the fact that she was now asking him for something, even something as simple as a length of rope, was simply too good an opportunity to pass up by fulfilling her request quickly.

He would take her annoyance because it was worth it for the chance to spend a little more time in her company.

"I have to say, though," he continued. "I wouldn't have categorised silverware as a necessarily  _useful_  item, although it was, no doubt, a very welcome addition to the table you set yesterday."

He realised he had made a mistake the moment the brief flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. In his desire to prolong their encounter, Killian had thought nothing of mentioning the silver tray that Mrs Swan had brought out the day before. It was an expensive item, but he hadn't realised there was more to the story. Not until he'd seen it written all over her face.

Still, her composure was quickly recovered which told another story altogether. He watched as she glanced to the side before answering. "It's an item which holds…sentimental value."

"A gift then?"

"Yes." Mrs Swan nodded in agreement, although her voice wavered slightly. She cleared her throat. "A gift," she repeated, appearing quite troubled now by the turn the conversation had taken, and Killian regretted the fact he had pushed it this far. He wished, now, that he had fetched the bloody rope she'd wanted and not brought up the silver tray, because, honestly, what was one small tray?

Except that the mention of it had clearly provoked something in Mrs Swan, some memory that she wanted hidden, something other than the pleasant, jovial conversation Killian had anticipated.

"From someone who holds you in high regard no doubt? Perhaps…your Aunt Regina?" Killian had hoped he was handing Mrs Swan a way to back out of the conversation gracefully, but she frowned in confusion. "Well, she did leave you the tablecloth, did she not?"

The frown did not leave Mrs Swan's face, but she answered with a quiet "Yes," and he was content to leave it at that and was about to continue on his mission to find rope when she added, "But she was never my aunt, of course."

"But she is Henry's?"

"No, although she was very good to him. I…I wouldn't have left him there otherwise." Mrs Swan was possibly mistaking his curiosity for a condemnation of her past actions. While those remained a little unclear to him, whatever had happened in the past, it was unlikely he would find it in himself to condemn her. After all, as he'd said the night before, she had gone back for Henry.

There were many who would not have done.

"So she was your friend?" he asked, still hoping to clarify the relationship, if only for his own benefit.

Mrs Swan tilted her head to one side, briefly. "Employer. I was one of her maids."

"Ah. And were you often pressed into service in the hunt for the missing eye?"

"No. That guest was more recent than my employment which was…over ten years ago now, I believe."

Mrs Swan seemed to have retreated into her own thoughts and, while Killian was pleased to have at least one new piece of information about her past, mostly he was glad that she had recovered her composure. He realised that the prudent course of action would be to let things lie and, perhaps, attempt to gain her confidence again at a later date.

But he was not sure when she would seek him out again and, more to the point, he was not someone who was usually happy taking the prudent course of action.

So, instead, he pressed on with the conversation. "Before you were married?"

He had expected that to be one of the more straightforward questions he could have asked Mrs Swan, but she rose from her reverie in a seeming state of confusion. "No. Yes…I mean…" She took a deep breath before continuing. "My husband was gone."

The word 'gone' struck at Killian's heart and reminded him, all too harshly, of exactly who was gone from his own life. He was torn between staying and offering some useless words of sympathy that were no doubt wasted at this late date, or fleeing to lick his own wounds on the pretext of finding the rope.

But then he realised just how long ago Mrs Swan had been a maid. And while Mrs Swan might believe him a simpleton, his education, after all, had included a great many matters that Henry's had not. More to the point, he knew exactly what had been required to ensure the boy's existence.

Whether he should share this knowledge with Mrs Swan was another matter altogether, and, although Killian suspected quite strongly that he would regret the words as soon as they were spoken, he couldn't help but ask anyway. "You were employed by this Regina when you were with child?"

Mrs Swan's frown returned, and she sighed in a resigned way, as though she knew her ruse had been discovered. "Yes, but Regina wasn't exactly aware of that. Not until…" she shrugged, slightly. "Well, I had Henry in her kitchen. I think that was a surprise to everyone concerned." Mrs Swan's chin lifted as she adopted a decidedly defiant air, as though challenging him to, well, he wasn't sure. Term her an inadequate mother, or servant, or both, perhaps?

Whatever she may have been, she was certainly surprising.

"I see. And after you had surprised your employer in this way, she became somewhat of a benefactor to you? And to Henry?"

"Somewhat."

Mrs Swan held his gaze, but offered no further comment or explanation and Killian felt that the moment for revelations was passed now. Wary of pushing her too far so she, once again, retreated inside the safety of the cabin he decided to begin on his errand once again.

And if he took a lot longer to fetch the rope than he should have simply because he was enjoying the novelty of Mrs Swan's presence in the barn after she followed him inside, then at least she had the good grace not to mention that he couldn't possibly get anything done in a day if every task was completed quite so slowly.

Indeed, by the time he handed her a length of rope she seemed to have recovered her previous good humour. "I confess to being surprised to find myself actually in possession of rope. I was afraid that you thought I might…I don't know. Use it to drag one of your cows into town in order to sell it and pocket the proceeds."

Killian couldn't help but laugh at the image that conjured. "Well, I'd like to see you actually try. The white cow's stubborn enough to give you run for your money. Although…" He made a great show of sizing her up, during which time Mrs Swan huffed and shifted her weight to one foot, but remained in front of him, waiting for his final words.

He thought that wasn't a bad sign at all.

"I do believe you might actually succeed," he said, in the end. "If only to prove me wrong."

"And you believe me to be the type of woman who would do something foolish just to prove my bravery?"

The answer was out of his mouth before he even thought about it. "Yes."

After all, the fact that she was there at all, that she had married him out of whatever misplaced sense of duty she might have felt towards Liam, spoke volumes as far as Killian was concerned. For all he knew, Mrs Swan had simply agreed to marry him because she'd spied him trying to sneak away and thought it would teach him a lesson. He almost wouldn't put it past her.

"You seem awfully certain in your opinions of me, Mr Jones," she replied, looking at him curiously, as though he had confused more than irritated her with his statement. Still, there was a fine line between the two, he suspected, and a push in the wrong direction could easily send Mrs Swan retreating from him once again.

"I find you quite…intriguing," he confessed.

"I fear there is nothing intriguing about me, Mr Jones." Her reply had come quickly, the words spoken harshly.

"I think, perhaps, I should be the judge of that, Mrs Swan."

There was a pause, while Mrs Swan considered her next words. "I am not much for being judged, Mr Jones. After all, none of us have the luxury of living blameless lives, do we?" The warning in her voice was unmistakeable, but, nonetheless, it merely increased Killian's desire to find out more about the surprising Mrs Swan, and he answered her with nothing more than a smile.

She didn't see, or, perhaps, didn't care, just how much she had already given away. It was plain to Killian that the fact that she worked so hard to keep herself hidden behind a mask of blank respectability, that she put up those invisible walls designed to repel any inquiry, clearly indicated that there was a reason for her masquerade that he had yet to discover.

What could she possibly want to hide?

Mrs Swan looked away quickly and lifted the rope that was now in her hands. "I should…I am going to hang this, and then set out for school with Henry." With that she abruptly turned on the spot and disappeared around the corner of barn, leaving Killian standing there, fighting the very real urge to follow her.

Instead he stood rooted on the spot, reluctant to begin on some of the other work that required his attention, if only because Mrs Swan might yet return and ask for his assistance in some other matter. It was unlikely to occur, of course, her rapid retreat had made it plain that she considered their conversation over and he very much doubted she would be anxious to welcome any more of his questions.

But still, there was always the chance. After all, she was nothing if not surprising.


	10. Chapter 10

Emma was more than a little annoyed after her encounter with Mr Jones, but the most infuriating thing about it was that, once again, she'd come away far more annoyed with herself than with the man she'd been speaking to.

And really, that seemed utterly wrong to her because if she was going to be peeved with someone, she'd rather it was Mr Jones. It made things so much clearer if she could fit him into a neat little box that was marked 'impossible to deal with', and then she wouldn't have to. She could live her life and he could live his and they wouldn't have to cross paths.

Except that she was his wife, and stuck here with him, and there was always the chance that she didn't have quite enough rope for her purpose.

Emma allowed herself a long and rather indulgent sigh, before continuing with the business at hand. It had seemed a simple task when she'd first imagined it, all that was required was to string some rope up and then she would have a place to hang the laundry she intended to do later in the morning.

But, while it is straightforward enough to tie one end of the rope to a stray beam that poked out between the roof and the wall of the barn, there is nothing that Emma can see which is suitable to attach the other end of the rope to.

She was examining the outhouse carefully, looking for any suitable stray nail or hole in a plank, when she realised that Mr Jones had walked up behind her. She resisted the urge to turn around and settled with poking her finger into a hole in the wood of the outhouse to see if it would be possible to push the rope through it…but was there another hole that she could pass it back through?

Emma remained steadfastly absorbed in the rough wood planks in front of her and refused to turn around and acknowledge his presence. It was the best course of action she could think of without there being an actual box around to shut him in.

Still, there was only so long she could spend examining one hole in one plank of wood and, after a few moments, it became obvious that she was avoiding Mr Jones' attention. With another deep sigh, she turned her head slightly and regarded him over her shoulder. "I should think there is a limit to how intriguing I could possibly be, Mr Jones."

"Well…" Emma heard the sound of his boots shuffling a little further forward. "I was concerned for the welfare of the cows. I didn't realise I should in fact be worried about whether you'd leave any buildings still standing around here."

For a brief moment Emma considered holding her tongue and just not responding to the comment that was blatant in its attempt to provoke her. But, almost as though she was no longer the person in charge of her own voice, she suddenly found herself replying to him anyway. "I can assure you that you have nothing to fear from me, Mr Jones. I'm merely looking for somewhere to attach this rope to." She held up the end of the rope to demonstrate her dilemma.

"Ah. That would explain the muttering I heard."

Emma felt rather justified in believing his statement to be entirely false. Clearly he had concocted the story to…well, she wasn't sure that she wanted to admit to the possibility that he was looking for reasons to seek her out. Even to only admit it to herself. Instead she settled for making a scoffing noise that, she hoped, set out her feelings on the matter.

Mr Jones didn't seem at all put off by that, if anything her scorn seemed to encourage him, and he stepped a little closer to Emma, peering closely at the wall of the outhouse.

"Any suggestions?" she asked, a little more snippily that perhaps was required.

He seemed far more interested in the part of the outhouse wall that Emma had been examining closely, and he leaned even closer, his chin almost brushing Emma's shoulder as he did so. Despite the imminent problem of exactly where to attach the rope to, she didn't feel the solution required quite such a thorough examination of the spot on the wall right next to her own head.

"Actually, yes" Mr Jones said, stepping back a little. Emma waited for him to elaborate but he said nothing further, merely turning and walking back around the corner of the barn. Emma was in two minds about whether to follow him, she certainly didn't want to give him the impression that she couldn't bear to be without his presence for more than a few moments, but, at the same time, she was curious about what this idea might turn out to be.

Her curiosity was soon sated when Mr Jones returned carrying a hammer in his good hand. As he approached Emma held out her own hand to take it from him, but he didn't hand it over, instead he stopped and gestured to his face with the hammer.

Oh. Mr Jones had a nail pressed between his lips and no doubt expected her to remove it for him. He could, Emma thought, have simply given her the hammer and that would have solved the problem, but when she moved to take it from him, he lowered his arm and the hammer was suddenly out of reach.

The challenge was unmistakeable, even without the raised eyebrow Mr Jones was now sporting. He had said before he thought her bold enough to steal a cow, now he wanted her to prove her mettle by…touching him.

It was hardly the worst task Emma had even been set, but, even so, she felt she should take the time to consider her next move. Something about this whole scenario suggested that she was about to cross a line she couldn't retreat behind again.

Or, perhaps, she was just being silly. A symptom of her unease in this strange situation and the stranger she found herself with. Clearly, she was far better off to just take the nail from him and move on to other things.

Emma reached up and grasped the nail with her forefinger and thumb, trying to remain as dispassionate as possible. Her little finger brushed Mr Jones' lips, and the whiskers below them as he opened his mouth to release the nail. As she pulled it free, his mouth curved up into a smile which matched the small crinkles in the corner of his eyes.

She was suddenly, and painfully, aware of the way that her heart was beating in her chest, but pushed the knowledge to one side. She'd deal with that later, right now she had a washing line to hang. "And the hammer?" she prompted.

Mr Jones continued to smile, but the hammer remained in his grasp. "You just put the nail where you want and I'll hammer it in."

"Really? Henry is allowed the hammer and I am not?"

Mr Jones shrugged. "Let's just take it one step at a time, perhaps."

Emma recalled their earlier conversation when she had requested rope and assumed he intended to continue playing the same game until he relented once again. "You fear that allowing me to have both rope and a hammer would be too much temptation for me to resist?"

Mr Jones leaned down so his mouth was close to her ear. "Mrs Swan. I am not entirely certain what it is you feel you would be tempted to do, but I think I will definitely retain possession of the hammer for now."

"No, that's not…" Emma stopped and took in the fact Mr Jones was still smiling at her. It was all a game to him, only he kept changing the rules. Well, she wouldn't bother trying to learn them. If he wanted games he could play them by himself, on his own time. Emma had other things to attend to.

"Fine. Is here suitable, do you think?" She held a nail against the side of the outhouse wall.

"As good as anywhere else."

Emma focused her gaze on the nail she was holding and waited for Mr Jones to strike the first blow. She had expected him to stand beside her, but instead he moved until he was standing right behind her, almost close enough to touch her back and, indeed, as he reached around to, presumably, begin hammering the nail in, his arm did brush her shoulder.

But perhaps, Emma reasoned, this was simply another game Mr Jones was playing and she was almost certain that if she turned her head to look at him it she would lose whatever it was they were playing. And so, she remained facing the wall trying to ignore just how close Mr Jones was to her now, ignore the fact that she could smell the alcohol on his breath and while she thought that should repulse her, somehow, it didn't.

Mr Jones tapped the nail in, far slower than she'd expected, and Emma became more and more fixated on what exactly might happen if she looked at his face. Maybe it wouldn't be the admission of failure she felt it was.

She could feel his breath on her ear and it occurred to Emma that if she did, in fact, turn her head then their lips would be almost touching and she was struck with a sudden curiosity to find out what that would be like. Feeling a little off-balance all of a sudden, Emma shifted her weight to the other foot which meant her hip brushed against Mr Jones' leg.

It shouldn't be this complicated, she thought, to hammer in a single nail. Emma took a deep breath and tried to remember that touching Mr Jones, that letting him touch her, was a game she had no intention of starting any time soon.

But it was soon clear, anyway, that the nail was now secure enough that Emma could remove her hand, and there was someone else who required her attention. "Mama!" Henry called out. "I found it!"

For a moment Emma was unclear as to what Henry was referring to, and she struggled a little to remember her last conversation with him, one that would have occurred prior to being in Mr Jones' company in the yard.

She refused, point-blank, to even contemplate why she was suddenly so forgetful, and then she recalled what Henry is no doubt referring to. "Your schoolbook. I did say it was packed in your case."

"Yes, Mama," Henry replied, sounding a little sheepish. His gaze, however, wasn't on Emma but on Mr Jones who was still behind her. "I could have helped," he ventured.

"It's alright, lad. Your mother here has been quite the asset."

Emma felt more than a little uncomfortable being the object of discussion between Henry and Mr Jones even if, it seemed, Mr Jones was currently singing her praises. It was, she felt, time to leave. "I guess we can be off then. Mr Jones, I'm going to walk Henry to school now. I will…I'll return shortly."

She risked a small glance behind her, but couldn't read anything in Mr Jones' expression and was unsure what she expected to see, anyway. She hurried towards the cabin before she could be drawn into another uncomfortable situation by Mr Jones, untying her apron hurriedly and hoping that the result would not be a knot in the string she would have difficulty in untangling.

Emma felt she had enough knotty problems in her life already.

And she hoped that Henry's company on the walk to the small schoolhouse on the edge of the town would pull her mind away from Mr Jones and his challenges and his games and his utterly confusing desire to remain near her as much as possible.

Discussing the prospect of the new school was far more appealing right then. "I wish the tree had grown already," Henry said, with a small sigh. "It would have been nice to bring Miss Blanchard an apple."

"I suspect she won't be offended by your lack of a gift, Henry. And besides, you've bought your schoolbook from Boston. I think that will be a greater help than an apple."

"I know." Henry sighed, again. "It's just that…" He stopped speaking and merely continued swinging the book he held in his hand.

"You hope she will like you?" Emma prompted.

"I…suppose," Henry agreed reluctantly. It occurred to Emma, perhaps a little belatedly she feared, that for all Henry appeared to be embracing life on the farm, he was a still a small boy, a long way from the only home he'd ever known and he was bound to find it all a little daunting.

"Well, just remember that Miss Blanchard is in the same boat, and counting on you to support her."

"You really think she'll need my help, Mama?"

"I'm sure she will."

Henry seemed, thankfully, satisfied with that answer and Emma was glad that he didn't press her for further assurances that everything would work out. In truth, she couldn't give them to him; Emma had enough memories of new places to know that nothing was ever guaranteed in these matters.

But Miss Blanchard was certainly welcoming when they reached the school house. "Thank goodness you're here, Henry!" she said brightly, while Henry stood close to Emma, looking a little bashful. "I need all the help I can get."

Miss Blanchard turned her smile to Emma, who returned it with, perhaps, a little less enthusiasm. She was still troubled by the awkward gathering in the town the day before, the one which resulted in the sight of Mr Jones being accosted by a saloon girl. Most of all, she feared that Miss Blanchard pitied her.

Still, if it meant she favoured Henry perhaps it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to Emma.

Just then another little girl ran into the classroom and handed a rather wilted yellow flower to Miss Blanchard. "Oh, thank you, Grace. This is lovely." The little girl didn't say anything to that, but Henry stared reproachfully at Emma. He was no doubt right, and they should have brought an offering to welcome his new teacher.

Emma decided it was time to take her leave before Henry had a chance to voice his displeasure at their choice and she waved a small goodbye first to Henry, and then to his teacher.

Outside the schoolroom once again Emma found herself truly alone for the first time in what felt like a very long time. Certainly since she'd begun her journey to Storybrooke she had been either in charge of Henry or in the presence of Mr Jones or both.

Now she only had her own company, and she found the experience quite refreshing. Eager to make the most of the opportunity Emma decided that instead of heading back the way she'd walked with Henry, she would continue on and visit the town once again.

It appeared much the same as it had previously, there was a moderate level of activity and the people paid her scant attention, a fact Emma was grateful for. She took the time to catalogue the buildings she could see; the general store and a small boarding house attached to it, a pawnbroker's with the name of Gold written above the awning, a timber merchant's, a livery. Further back she could see what looked like a mill.

And then there was the saloon, the building looming over one side of the makeshift square. There was no sign of the girl in green today, and Emma wasn't entirely prepared to admit that she had been curious about her, if, for no other fact that she seemed well-acquainted with Mr Jones.

His behaviour that morning had been a mystery to Emma, or, rather, the intentions behind it had been. She'd been offended when he'd quite obviously shunned her company after she and Henry first arrived but now, now that he was not only seeking her out but attempting to engage her in a kind of playful banter, that just confused Emma utterly.

There was no way, she decided, to find the words to ask the man she'd married if what he desired from her was friendship, or something approaching a courtship. Or, perhaps, something else altogether.

Emma felt less than confident that any of her musings would lead in the right direction. And, as she continued to drift past the saloon, she was so consumed with her own thoughts that she failed to notice the woman standing in front of her until they were almost toe to toe.

She was older than Emma, perhaps by twenty years or more, but she was still undeniably handsome, her dark hair coiled in an intricate style and her cheeks showing just the merest hint of rouge. She tilted her parasol to one side and gave Emma an appraising look.

"I'm sorry," Emma said, hoping she hadn't caused any great offence.

"Oh, it's no problem, dear," the woman replied, a smile playing across her painted lips. "I make allowances for those who are new in town."

"Oh. Well, yes I am." Emma didn't feel particularly inclined to divulge any more information than was absolutely necessary; there was something about the woman's openly appraising gaze that Emma found a little unsettling.

"I'm Cora Mills," the woman continued, extending her hand to Emma, who took it, briefly. "Proprietor of this establishment," she gestured to the saloon. "Plus a few other…interests…in town."

"Pleased to meet you," Emma replied. "I'm…" She was unable to finish as Mrs Mills waved a hand and began speaking again.

"I know exactly who  _you_  are, dear. You're the most exciting thing to happen here for a very long time."

"I find that very hard to believe," Emma murmured, wishing she had a polite way to escape the increasingly uncomfortable conversation she found herself in.

Mrs Mills gave a rather rueful chuckle, and shook her head, making her jet earrings dance in the sunlight. "I suppose a small town isn't what you're used to, but, believe me, new arrivals are quite the draw-card for the people around here, Mrs Jones."

The woman's smile grew wider, which simply made Emma more suspicious. "And what exactly are they saying about me, Mrs Mills?"

"Oh, well. Of course the tragedy that occurred just before you arrived was terrible, but we're all  _so glad_  that you've found your feet. And your man, as it were." Mrs Mills tilted her head to one side and locked eyes with Emma.

"I have been very fortunate." Emma was well aware that there was no matching smile on her face, but, at that moment, she found it very hard to care. Whatever this woman wanted with her she doubted it was good things.

"Of course you have. But…well, you and I we are women of the world, are we not?" Emma nodded once, slowly, a little unsure of what exactly she was agreeing to. "And we have seen what can befall a woman in this rather pitiless world."

"Yes." Emma's voice was little more than a whisper, Cora Mills' words cutting far too close to the bone for comfort.

"Well, we women, we need to stick together. You just remember that, should your circumstances ever become…less than they are now. Here," she gestured again to the saloon door. "Here we take care of one another Mrs Jones, and you will always, _always_ , find a friend when you need one."

Her words echoed those of Miss Blanchard's the day prior but this time Emma found scant comfort. Mrs Mills was, quite plainly, no friend to be trusted and Emma could think of nothing worse than finding herself with nowhere to go but the saloon.

"I thank you for your concern, Mrs Mills, but I assure you…"

Once again, Emma was cut off before she could finish. "Yes, I know. You don't believe you would ever be in need of such help. If only that were the case, my dear. But the world is cruel and fate is a fickle thing. And it would be a great pity for something awful to befall someone as comely as you are, my dear." She fixed Emma with what was, presumably, meant as a kindly smile. To Emma's mind, however, it looked downright predatory.

And then she looked away from Emma, turning her head to the side as something else caught her attention. When Emma followed her gaze she saw that it was now focused on a man standing outside the pawnbroker's store. She vaguely recognised him; he seemed to have been part of the welcoming party who met Miss Blanchard at the station on her arrival.

Mrs Mills nodded in the direction of the man, but he made no response that Emma could see, instead remaining almost still and continuing to watch them intently.

"Have you met Mr Gold?" Mrs Mills asked, conversationally, as she turned back to Emma.

"We haven't been properly introduced."

"Mmm, well. I'm sure it's only a matter of time. He owns most things in town. Well, most things I don't own, that is. I'm sure he'll be very interested in you. Although…" Mrs Mills paused and let out a rather dramatic sigh, before fixing Emma with a sly look. "I would have to venture that he and your husband are not on the best terms and I'd advise you not to get caught between them. It would not end well for you. It never does for the woman, does it?"

"I should be getting back." Emma said, stepping back and turning away from Mrs Mills.

"Yes. I suppose you should. The joy of having a husband to attend to, I presume. And I would imagine he requires a good deal of your attention. He is, well…" She paused for longer than was comfortable, maintaining that faint smile she'd worn throughout their encounter, as though she found Emma endlessly amusing company. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you anything about your own husband, now do I?"

"Good day, Mrs Mills."

"And to you, Mrs Jones. Send my regards to that husband of yours, and… I'm sure you think you don't need them, but you really do have my best wishes. I certainly hope that you remain as happy as you are now. You've come such a long way to be here. It would be a shame if things didn't work out as you had hoped with Mr Jones, wouldn't it?"

Emma was aware of her heart beating loudly in her chest but she refused to spend another moment under this woman's scrutiny. With great effort she managed to stammer out a reply. "I will take my leave now, Mrs Mills. Good day once again."

There was no response from the other woman and Emma hurried off feeling deeply disturbed by the whole encounter. It was one thing to realise that everyone knew who she was and why she was there, it was quite another to have to deal with someone who wanted to deliberately unsettle her. Or, at least, that was how she took the meaning behind Mrs Mills' words.

Worst of all was the insinuation that she knew more about Mr Jones that Emma herself did. It wouldn't be a difficult feat after all, she barely knew the man at all despite being married to him.

It wasn't that Emma was ignorant of her situation, she just, perhaps, had not expected the other woman to point it out to her quite so forcefully under the guise of friendship. It left Emma feeling unsettled and…disappointed, she supposed. In herself for beginning to feel as though things could be better for her in Storybrooke, as though she and Mr Jones might yet find some common ground.

As though she'd ever be a part of anything good.

Hurrying away from the saloon she glanced to her right and saw that Mr Gold was watching her progress. Emma had had quite enough scrutiny for one morning, however, and hurried past the buildings and away from town.

Passing the schoolhouse once again she peered through the window, curious about how Henry was adjusting to his new environment. He didn't notice her, although Miss Blanchard raised her hand in acknowledgement. Henry appeared far too interested in his book, which he was sharing with the girl, Grace, who had been in the classroom earlier.

At least, Emma ruminated as she continued her journey home, Henry appeared to be making friends. The fact he knew nothing about his desk-mate, save her first name and her taste in gifts, did not matter a jot.

The fact she knew nothing about Mr Jones mattered a great deal, and, despite the fact she desperately wanted to believe that his more friendly overtures were genuine, she simply had no evidence to support that belief. She couldn't shake the doubts she had now, the ones placed there by Mrs Mills who was, she had to admit, no friend to her and perhaps no friend to Mr Jones.

But that didn't mean that she didn't know something about him. Something Emma herself didn't.

Sadly thinking about her situation on the walk home did Emma no good at all and merely served feed the gnawing worry in her stomach that had somehow dissipated during the morning.

And she wasn't going to think about why exactly that was.

There was no sign of Mr Jones when she scanned the yard at the farm, but her washing line was now hung and waiting for her to use and she felt that was a sign she should just carry on with the work at hand.

Behind the cabin was the remains of a fire pit that had, perhaps, once been used for cooking. The tripod, from which hung a large, cast-iron pot, looked a little on the rickety side, but Emma gave it an experimental shake and it seemed sound enough.

Building the fire below it from the wood stacked beside the cabin was her first task, and filling the pot with water to heat her second. By the time those were complete her anxiety had eased somewhat. Perhaps, she thought, she just needed good, hard work to keep her occupied. That way she wouldn't have to think about, or interact with, Mr Jones. Her life would certainly be simpler if that was the case.

While the water was heating Emma dragged a small tin tub she'd spied near the outhouse into the centre of the yard and proceeded to rid it of its resident population of spiders and other insects. Next was to find some dirty laundry to actually clean. Her own soiled garments, and Henry's, had been set aside inside the cabin, so Emma gathered them up, along with all the bedding and brought them outside.

Leaving everything in a pile beside the tub, Emma took one final glance around the yard, and then set off in the direction of the hut Mr Jones slept in. Friendship, or whatever it was, he wanted from her was one thing. What she'd actually promised, both Mr Jones and his brother, was something else entirely.

She'd come there to run their household, and if today was laundry day, then everything was getting washed. At least, that was the justification in Emma's own mind as she walked across the yard to the hut where Mr Jones slept. She wasn't simply giving in to her curiosity about the man and taking the opportunity to look through his private space; she was demonstrating her worth to him.

It was a good story, and Emma repeated it in her head until she almost believed it herself.

The hut, when she entered it, was dark, the sod blocking the light quite effectively. Emma was tempted to turn on her heel and leave. She stood her ground, however, took a deep breath in and looked around, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom, wondering where she could look that would be the most likely place for soiled clothing.

Or perhaps anything else that might show something about Mr Jones. Something that would give her some clue as to whether she needed to be as cautious as Mrs Mills had intimated she should be.

It was patently clear that he had made no attempt to hide the bottles of liquor that were in the hut, but Emma wasn't unduly surprised. For one thing, he probably wasn't expecting company. Emma picked up a half-empty bottle and looked at it idly. It was possible, she thought, that Mrs Mills was simply worried about Emma's influence on someone who had been, up until now, a good customer of the saloon.

For possibly more than just alcohol, Emma thought, sighing and replacing the bottle on the small chest it had been sitting on. There was a pocket watch next to it, and a basin and jug with water, but she had to find anything that could be described as laundry, or anything particularly incriminating.

Emma walked to the bed and was about to strip the bedding when the door suddenly opened and Mr Jones stepped through it. For a moment they both remained frozen on the spot, staring at each other and then Emma watched as his expression changed from surprise to something altogether darker.

"You're in here," he said, which was hard for Emma to deny because she plainly was in the hut.

Emma, instead, decided that her best course of action was to act as though no transgression had been committed. "I was simply in search of more laundry. I did ask, but you hadn't given me anything."

The expression on Mr Jones' face did not lighten any and, if anything, his frown deepened. "I don't think the laundry is that urgent. Certainly not to the extent that you needed to come in and rifle through my belongings."

Emma made a scoffing noise. "I did nothing of the sort. I was about to remove the bedding, if you must know." She valiantly attempted to retain a relaxed posture, but there was no mistaking that Mr Jones was between her and the door and there was no escape at present. It might be easy to think him a friend in the bright sunlight of the day, but here, in the dark, it was hard for Emma to tell exactly what he was to her.

He took a step forward, further into the hut and Emma, without thinking took a step backwards and held up her hands, palms facing outward, whether in supplication or warning she wasn't sure.

Mr Jones' frown remained in place, but his eyes softened, and looked almost pleading. "Why do think I would hurt you?" he asked. "I've said that I won't."

"I just…" Emma didn't really know how to answer that question, without giving too much away. "I don't even know you," she settled for in the end, her voice quiet and sad, even to her own ears. It was the thought she'd been stuck with since her horrible conversation with Mrs Mills. She didn't know the man she'd married, and, worse than that, other people did.

"No. You don't." Mr Jones sighed and looked away, before running his hand over the back of his neck. "Well, feel free to look around, I have nothing to hide." He waved his hand in front of him in invitation for, presumably, Emma to investigate his possessions.

But Emma wasn't about to be fooled if she could help it. "I only needed the soiled bedding, and then I'll leave." She tugged a blanket loose from the bed and avoided looking at Mr Jones again.

"No…don't. I mean, I'm sorry if I caused offence. I suppose I'm not used to having visitors." Mr Jones followed this statement up with a nervous chuckle, but Emma remained focused on the bed she was stripping and not on the man standing behind her. That fact didn't appear to dissuade Mr Jones from trying to win back her favour and he kept talking. "I can't say as I've ever had so many visitors in one day. First Henry was here talking about being a big brother, and now you…"

Emma turned her head sharply and looked at Mr Jones over her shoulder. "What were you talking to Henry about?"

"He merely wanted my opinion on his suitability as a big brother." Emma found that statement puzzling, and it must have shown in her face, as Mr Jones rushed to elaborate. "He thinks he'll soon be getting a sibling." He finished with a shrug and his eyes dropped down to examine the floor.

Emma gathered up the bedding in her arms and reflected on what Mr Jones had said. She felt a sharp tug of something painful hit her heart but it was superseded quickly by a burst of white-hot anger. "I see it is you who think I am hiding something, Mr Jones."

"I…no…" Mr Jones looked confused but Emma was in no mood to allow him the benefit of the doubt. All the worry she'd been feeling since meeting Mrs Mills merely served to fuel her anger at Mr Jones further. Because, whatever way she chose to look at it, he was the cause of every painful emotion she was experiencing at that moment.

When the words came tumbling out of her they were quick and sharp and aimed right at the person she felt had hurt her the most. "You think that because I have hidden my condition before I would do the same again? That I have come to lumber you with my bastard offspring like some half-wild alley cat sneaking in an unlocked back door to have her kittens by a warm hearth? You think I would be that cruel and calculating, that I would agree to a marriage under false pretences and then proceed to trick you into the same fate? You really think that?"

Emma's heart was pounding and she hugged the bedding to her chest as though the pressure would stop it from doing so. Mr Jones merely watched her, with wide blue eyes full of concern and, when he spoke, his voice was low and even, as though he were talking to an animal he was trying to soothe and reassure.

"No. That is not what I think at all, Mrs Swan. I was…merely trying to keep you informed of Henry's, uh…well. Of what we had been discussing. I thought you might appreciate the chance to understand him a little better." Mr Jones took a step towards her, holding out his hand as though he might stroke her arm, but at the last moment he let it fall to his side instead.

"He was quite plain where his desires lay," Mr Jones continued, his face very close to Emma's and she became painfully aware that there was no way for her to move away from him this time as the bed was behind her.

"We all have things we desire, but which we will never get. And there will be no sibling. Now, I need to get on with my work, Mr Jones." Emma pushed past him in the narrow space of the hut and heard, she thought, a muttered "Emma…" leave his mouth as she did so, but she did not stop or turn back.

She had laundry to attend to, and no time for any further games with Mr Jones. Besides, she was beginning to worry about where her own desires lay, and, until such time as the matter of just how far she could trust Mr Jones was settled, it was better that she leave those thoughts alone.

She would simply continue on with her work and pretend that she hadn't liked it when she thought she could be his friend, rather than just the person who kept the clothes clean.

The laundry was hot, boring, tiring work and, as pleased as Emma felt when she saw the clean items pegged out on her newly-hung washing line, she was soon tired and sore and wished that there was someone else who was willing to take over the chore for a while.

Mr Jones remained out of sight, and Emma was a little glad of that. She was, in all truth, somewhat embarrassed that she may have jumped to conclusions as far as he was concerned. It was a silly mistake to make, and one she knew could cost her later on should he decide to hold it against her.

It was beginning to feel to Emma as though nothing she did worked out for her, at every turn in the tricky path she was trying to navigate in this new life something tripped her up and she fell flat on her face again.

By the time the laundry was finished, scrubbed and rinsed and hung on the line to dry, Emma was feeling more than a little down in the mouth. She was sore from bending over the washtub, hot and sweaty and was certain that she had seen at least one flea jump from the bedding as she carried it around.

She eyed the tub warily. It was large enough to serve as a bathtub, perhaps, although it would be a cramped one. Still, there was no denying the restorative powers of a soak in warm water and, really, at that moment Emma was prepared to take any small comfort she could.

After emptying the tub onto the dry ground, she refilled it with clean hot water and, with a final glance around the yard to assure herself that she was alone, Emma stripped off her now grimy dress and apron, her petticoats and other underthings, her stockings and boots and slipped into the tub.

Once immersed in the water, Emma started to feel a little better. The luxury of hot water, hot water that she may have to heat herself, but which she wouldn't have to share with anyone, was something that she would never grow tired of. She stretched her legs out, well over the edge of the tub, and stared at the horizon over her toes.

Perhaps not everything here, including Mr Jones himself, was as bad as she feared. Perhaps she needed to trust her instincts, the ones that told her he was no great threat, the ones that thought he might, in fact, be the friend she needed. Perhaps she needed to put the words of Mrs Mills out of her head and worry, instead, about Henry's words to Mr Jones.

There was always something to worry about, and that was the problem. How did she know where the real problems were, in this odd place where everything was strange and everyone was a stranger, including the man she'd married?

If nothing else, Emma had seen first-hand how dangerous jumping to conclusions could be. She doubted, very much, that Mr Jones would soon forget the accusations she'd tossed his way. Alley cat was probably the right description for her, lashing out with her claws as soon as she found herself cornered with nowhere to run.

But, determined to enjoy the simple pleasure of her bath, Emma closed her eyes and rested her head against the edge of the tub, shutting out the sunlight and its harsh rays. She was still in this position when she heard the unmistakeable sound of footsteps in the yard behind her.

If anyone had asked her afterwards, it's doubtful that Emma could have clearly articulated what her reasons were for her next actions. She was only aware that it was some kind of test she was setting for Mr Jones to discover whether he was truly to be trusted.

After all, Emma had learned as a girl that it was dangerous when men looked at you, that their gaze was to be avoided at all costs and to invite that very thing was surely an action that would end in disaster. You could very well find yourself powerless in an instant.

But something in that moment made Emma bold and reckless. She stood up and languidly reached for the towel she had placed on the stool next to the tub.

"I'm sorry…I didn't…I didn't mean to disturb you," Mr Jones said, haltingly, from some way behind her.

Emma wrapped the towel around her torso, leaving her shoulders, arms and legs still bare. As she did so, she looked over her shoulder and fixed Mr Jones with an expression she hoped gave very little away. "It's no bother, Mr Jones. I was hardly hiding."

She turned around, still with her feet in the tub, so that she was face-on to Mr Jones. He hadn't come any closer, but he hadn't moved away either.

"I hadn't expected this to be part of the laundry process," he said, still sounding as though he was unsure of what exactly was going on. He may have spoken to her earlier in the day as though she were an animal to be soothed, but now he looked at her as though she were a dangerous creature sent to do him harm.

They stood still and silent for a moment. Mr Jones was watching her warily, clearly not sure what she was offering. Emma wasn't certain herself. She only knew that this was her game and it would all be fine as long as Mr Jones heeded the unspoken rules she didn't really understand herself.

"It's been quite hot work. Plus, I think I found a flea. Or two." She shuddered a little and noticed the way that Mr Jones' eyes travelled down her body and back up again. The odd thing was, at least to Emma's mind, that his gaze did not make her feel any the less powerful.

Quite the opposite in fact.

Mr Jones took a step towards her, and then paused, as if he were trying to ascertain how skittish she was. Emma stepped out of the tub, but did not make any further move. "I suppose a bath would be quite appreciated. Under the circumstances," he said.

"Quite," Emma replied emphatically. "It was most refreshing." She watched as he moved another couple of steps closer. "You know, you are quite welcome to the water if you wish. I'm the only one who's used it."

Mr Jones eyed the tub critically. "I'm not sure I'd fit, lass."

"You could try."

"Aye, perhaps."

Mr Jones seemed to have taken her last words as invitation to close the distance between them. He was now so close that she could see the faint scar on his cheek, watch as the sunlight showed the lighter, reddish whiskers in his beard. So close that she could see the black pupils of his eyes had almost eclipsed the blue surrounding them.

She had seen men look at her with what could only be termed desire before. But this was somehow different, there was something raw in his gaze as though he was showing her what was at the very depths of his heart. It was a little frightening, to be the object of such unbridled wanting.

But it was quite intoxicating all the same.

Emma watched as he ran his tongue along his bottom lip and swallowed, and then his right hand moved to his chest as he began unbuttoning his shirt.

She wondered if she should help him, or if that act would be misconstrued as thinking him helpless. In the end she settled for watching as, one by one, the buttons came free and revealed the skin of his chest, paler than that of his throat, and the dark hair that covered it.

Risking a look at his face Emma saw Mr Jones' gaze fixed intently on her, almost too intently. She moved her eyes back to his chest and saw him slip his suspenders off, before beginning the process of shrugging out of his shirt.

It was complicated, though, by the brace he wore on the end of his left arm, and the shirt became stuck. Without think, Emma reached out a hand to touch it. "Surely you don't bathe with this in place?" she asked, but, just as her fingers were about to make contact with the brace, Mr Jones snatched his arm away from her.

As his arm pulled back and away from her the hook arced upwards and caught Emma's forefinger. She pulled her hand back and examined the finger where there was now a bright red drop of blood.

Mr Jones had stopped trying to remove his shirt and, when Emma lifted her eyes to his face, appeared to be staring at her finger in horror. "It's just blood," she assured him, putting her finger into her mouth to clean it off.

But, clearly, her injury had broken the spell that the two of them had been under. At least as far as Mr Jones was concerned. He mumbled "I'm sorry," and then turned and fled in the direction of the hut.

Emma watched his retreating back feeling what could only be termed regret. If she'd intended to test whether he meant her harm then, perhaps, she had succeeded. But she wasn't entirely certain she liked the price it had come at.

Sighing, she collected her things and headed into the cabin to get dressed. It would be time to go and meet Henry shortly, and there was dinner to prepare after that.

It was just a shame, she thought, that all the chores in the world couldn't keep her mind from revisiting the one thing she'd discovered that afternoon.

Whatever Mr Jones might be to her, Emma, more than ever now, knew what she wanted to be to him.

She just wasn't admitting, not even to herself, where her own desires lay. That mostly what she wanted was for Mr Jones to look at her, once again, like he had that afternoon; like she was all the stars in the sky and moon besides.

It was simply too much to bear thinking about.


	11. Chapter 11

It was the last thing he'd expected to see walking into the yard, Mrs Swan rising out of an impromptu bath like some kind of siren sent to tempt him with her pale skin, long legs and trailing strands of wet hair.

He wondered if this was a test, but he wasn't entirely sure of what. Or perhaps it was meant as an apology for her earlier harshness in the hut; her naked state a sign that she's more than willing to strip herself bare for him, if he asks her to.

He didn't ask because fear kept him silent, and rooted to the spot. It felt as though she might disappear if he acknowledged her presence.

But he would take the brief moment of pleasure he gained from the sight of her, and he would be grateful for it because it was far more than he ever expected he would have.

She had seemed in no great hurry to remove herself from his gaze, slowly covering her body and then turning around to meet his eyes in a direct challenge.

And she was so very tempting, especially as she drew him closer and he found himself all but persuaded to bathe as well. But, even when she was right in front of him, his mind wandered into dangerous territory. Killian didn't know if other men felt this way, wanted their wives this much. His mind was full of lewd images, lurid scenes of him simply taking her. Bent over the tub, or up against the side of the barn or, perhaps, he could carry her into his hut where he could imagine what it would be like as she rose and fell above him, her hair down her back and his hands on her buttocks, her hips, her breasts…

But the fantasy in his mind was nothing like the reality of his life. For one thing she was hardly offering herself to him, for another he was missing a hand, a fact his mind seemed to forget during his fevered imaginings of their couplings.

The evidence of the missing hand is clear, however. Or, rather, it is exceedingly difficult not to notice that he has a hook in its place. And the damage that it does to Mrs Swan.

She told him that it was 'just blood', but it never is. And the sight of it made him retreat from her in case he causes her further pain.

He can't be trusted to keep her safe. He can't keep anyone safe. And when he was alone in the hut it was these thoughts that flooded his brain, pushing away the far more pleasing images of an unclothed Mrs Swan.

He remembered his mother and the blood and pain that came with each and every baby who didn't live, until, finally, she was taken as well. For her it was probably a blessing. For Killian, and for Liam no doubt, it was the start of an ever darker period of their childhood.

And then the worst memories of all. He cannot help but linger on the images of Milah as she lay dying in front of him, her blood staining the dry earth darker and her eyes staring blankly ahead. The pain in his heart had been worse than the pain in his hand, mangled and useless and rather swiftly dispatched by Dr Whale as Liam held him down.

It was never just blood. It was pain and death and a reminder that nothing good ever stays that way. Whatever the test Mrs Swan had set him was meant to accomplish, it's clear that he's failed it. Miserably.

Killian remained inside the hut for as long as he dared and when he emerged there were no further tantalising glimpses of Mrs Swan, just a tub of water standing in the yard and the laundry she'd hung flapping limply in the small breeze.

He found something to busy his hands in the barn, but his mind continued to lurch from the pleasing memory of Mrs Swan's form to the far more painful memories he wanted nothing more than to block out. Mostly he thought of the drink and he was close to admitting defeat and going in search of his bottle when he heard Henry's voice and was alerted to the fact that they had returned to the farm.

He was ashamed of the fact he had fled from Mrs Swan earlier, and he was not particularly anxious to discover if his actions had caused her to retreat once again. But he was curious about the commotion in the yard and his curiosity got the better of him.

When he exited the barn it was soon apparent that the source of Henry's distress was, in fact, the still full tub of water. Or, to be more exact, it was the fact his mother was trying to persuade him into it that he was objecting to so vigorously.

"I don't really think it's necessary, Mama," Henry complained, not making eye contact with Mrs Swan.

"Henry, you need a bath. Just get in the bath, please." The exasperation in her voice was plain, as was the degree to which Henry was desperate to avoid the outcome his mother wished for. And Killian was almost tempted to side with him, to agree that a bath was unnecessary when he'd been sitting inside a classroom all day and, perhaps, to suggest some task that Henry could assist with which would remove him from his mother's clutches.

But, before Killian could voice any of these thoughts, Mrs Swan's eyes flicked to his and there was something different in there now. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He wouldn't have termed it pity, although he expected that his earlier display of cowardice and shame would certainly prompt that emotion quite readily.

This was different however, a rare moment of vulnerability that shone through and suggested that Mrs Swan was as lost as Killian. Perhaps in stripping off her garments earlier she'd stripped away a layer of herself that she couldn't as readily replace as she could a dress or boots. Or maybe she didn't even want to.

And then he couldn't help but frame a new thought, even though he was grasping at straws and he knew it; maybe he had actually passed the test she'd set him earlier in the afternoon.

Killian felt a brief moment of elation at that idea.

It caused a small shift in his loyalties and, as tempted as he'd been just moments before to assist Henry in avoiding bath-time, the words he uttered when Henry caught his eye were "I think you should listen to your mother, lad."

The glowering look that Henry gave him made it plain that he felt Killian's betrayal deeply, but it was more than made up for by the way Mrs Swan's eyes met his, and the small nod and faint smile that were sent his way when she did so.

"Come on," Mrs Swan said, turning back to Henry. "You might as well get it over with."

Henry still did not seem all that convinced of the necessity of bathing and he looked around the yard and at both Killian and Mrs Swan, as though he was gauging the possibility of simply making a run for it, when Killian added "And then, perhaps, if your mother agrees I could show you how to use the gun?"

The change in Henry's expression was instantaneous, but Killian was more interested in the effect his words would have on Mrs Swan's countenance. He could see the flutter of worry pass across her face, but it was quickly replaced by something far more satisfied when Henry seemed to accept his fate and had begun removing his boots. "Can I, Mama?" he asked.

"I think that will be acceptable, Mr Jones," she said, not taking her eyes off of Henry, which, Killian had to admit, was probably wise given his earlier skittishness. But when she had judged her son to be compliant enough she lifted her eyes to Killian again and there was a gleam in there that he hadn't seen before.

Mrs Swan was pleased. With him or with Henry or, perhaps, both of them. Killian wasn't completely certain, but it felt good all the same. He left her to finish wrangling Henry into the tub feeling lighter in his heart than he had for a while.

When a freshly-bathed Henry searched him out for the promised lesson, he wasn't alone. Mrs Swan, looking far less enthusiastic about the enterprise than her son, had accompanied him. "Mama said I have to listen to you, Mr Jones," Henry informed him.

"Aye, well…" Killian risked a glance over at Mrs Swan who looked at him expectantly. "You definitely do. It would be a crying shame if you shot yourself and your gravestone read  _My mother told me to be more careful._ "

He watched as Henry tried to figure out if Killian was being serious, and then glanced at Mrs Swan who definitely seemed amused by his comments. He risked a smile in her direction, hoping it would be reciprocated, and he was, indeed, rewarded in kind.

"Now you just remember that you need to be careful, Henry," Mrs Swan reminded him, and then, with a small nod in Killian's direction, she swept back through the yard in the direction of the cabin.

The next hour or so was a long one as Henry's attempts to shoot straight frustrated both Killian and Henry himself. "I thought it would be easier," he muttered, as yet another bullet had failed to find its target.

"Aye, well. It's like anything. It takes practice."

"How much practice have you had?"

"Enough." Killian hoped there wouldn't be follow-up questions to that statement. "And one day you will have had, too."

Henry sighed, loudly. "I just want to be big enough that Mama can't make me have a bath anymore," he grumbled. "Honestly, I wasn't  _that_  dirty."

"You know, no matter how good a shot you are, it's very hard to hit anything if it can smell you coming."

Henry's half-smile suggested that he wasn't entirely convinced by Killian's explanation but was too polite to disagree. It was alarmingly similar to the expression his mother sometimes wore, the one she'd had when he'd mentioned the proposed epitaph for the gravestone.

Killian wasn't certain whether he would be greeted by smiles or frowns from Mrs Swan when he entered the cabin for supper, but she seemed amenable to his presence. He would admit, though, that her ongoing feud with the stove and concern about Henry's appetite seemed foremost in her mind and he wondered, perhaps, if her reaction to him was more indifference than any kind of enjoyment of his company.

But after they had eaten the meal she'd prepared Mrs Swan seemed in no great hurry for him to leave and she offered him coffee. "I think this batch is better," she asserted.

"And I'm to have the first taste?"

"Yes…although I can assure you, once again, I have no nefarious purpose. If I poison you, it will be completely by accident." She pushed the cup across the table towards him.

"Well, that's a good story Mrs Swan. Just make sure you remember to tell it to the sheriff." Killian took a sip, while Mrs Swan watched him carefully. "It's certainly very, uh…palatable."

She nodded a couple of times. "That's what I thought. I mean, it's still not what I expected at all when I ordered coffee, but it is something I could get used to." She took a sip of from her own cup and put it down, her eyes remaining on the table as she brushed at some imaginary dirt.

"You know," she said. "I wanted to say thank you. For earlier."

"Earlier?" Killian asked, warily. He didn't really want to re-visit the debacle with the bath.

"When I was trying to get Henry to take a bath."

"Ah. Well, he should listen to you. But I wasn't sure how you'd feel about me letting him loose with a gun."

Mrs Swan gave a small shrug. "It could have been a lot worse, I suppose. At least he did not get us to agree to anything that we hadn't already agreed to."

"Aye. That's a good point. You might even say we make quite a good team." Killian took another sip of his coffee and waited to see what Mrs Swan's reaction would be, watching her as carefully as he dared.

She smiled, briefly. "You might. Well, I had better make sure Henry is actually washing the dishes I sent him outside to clean." With a final, brief, nod at Killian she stood up and left the table, and when he took his now empty cup outside to where Henry was bent over a tub of soapy water, she was nowhere to be seen.

"I don't see why I had to have a bath earlier, because look!" Henry looked at Killian for confirmation and, indeed, the front of his shirt was soaked.

"I'm not sure you're supposed to immerse yourself along with the dishes, Henry."

"Well, anyway. I can't help it. And it was just wasting water having a bath first." He nodded to himself looking like he was pleased with the argument he'd made.

"Ah, but your mother had already drawn the water for the bath, and it would have been a waste if you hadn't used it as well."

That statement earned Killian a frown from Henry, who wiped at his face with a wet arm sending drops of water running down his nose and cheeks. It all but ruined the effect of his rather stern face and made it difficult for Killian not to laugh outright.

In the end, perhaps sensing a dignified retreat was his best course of action, Henry gave up on glaring at Killian and went back to scrubbing dishes. "Of course you see it Mama's way," he grumbled. "You want things from her."

"I…do?" Henry had given some details of his first day at school during dinner, but Killian doubted that he'd returned to the farm informed about the kinds of things that Killian did want from Mrs Swan, especially now that he had the image of her rising from the bath burned in his brain.

Even so, Henry's comments cut a little close to the bone and made him uncomfortably aware of his sudden desire to flee the scene. He settled for scuffing his boots a little, hoping that Henry was sufficiently occupied with trying not to drown while washing the dishes to really notice.

"Well, yes. I mean, you have to…" Henry stopped talking for a moment and scrunched up one side of his face. "Because you want to be her friend. You want that, so you have to share and, um…well just generally be nice."

When Killian didn't say anything, unsure of what to say, really, Henry continued on. "Miss Blanchard told me that if I wanted to have friends then I had to act like a friend, but I think she just wanted me to share my school book with Grace. She doesn't have one. And we came here, and Mama has to share things and now you have to be her friend, and so…it's easier if you agree with her. Not for me." Henry sighed heavily. "But probably for you."

"Aye. Friends, yes. Goodnight, Henry." Killian beat a hasty retreat to the barn to check on the animals for the night. He wasn't sure if Henry's words were true; sure, he had told himself that he wanted her companionship and he was still certain that was true. But he had other desires as well and things were undeniably complicated between them.

He stepped out into the yard and listened to the sound of Mrs Swan's voice carrying through the gaps in the walls of the cabin, she was chiding Henry to get into bed. The idea of such a domestic scene jarred with the image of the woman in the bath and left Killian confused about what it was he wanted most from Mrs Swan.

He returned to the solitude of his own hut feeling unsettled. Killian might have difficulty understanding the full extent of his desire for Mrs Swan, but he was at least certain he wanted her. He could not be so certain of what she wanted from him, or what had prompted her to be slightly more receptive towards him.

Upon entering Killian noticed that at some point Mrs Swan must have visited while he was otherwise occupied; the bedding, now freshly washed, had been replaced. He sat on the bed and was struck, suddenly, with the realisation of what Mrs Swan's test had actually proven, as least as far as she was concerned.

He'd run from her and now she no doubt thought him impotent, neutered, incapable of carrying through with any desire for her he might have. And, worse than that, she felt safe now. Her much softer demeanour since then attested to that fact. Gone was the cornered animal he'd found in the hut earlier in the afternoon, affronted when she imagined that he had accused her of immorality. In her place was the woman who appreciated his help with Henry, who wanted his company and didn't watch him cautiously out of the corner of her eye.

He wanted that woman. He wanted to spend time with her, to watch her smile when he spoke to her and to have her reciprocate his jesting remarks in kind, rather than worrying about what she should say to please him.

He wanted her badly. And she wanted to be safe. So that's what he would give her, because, God knows, there was very little else he had to offer.

Killian lay back on the bed and tried to push away the desire to drink, but all it did was allow his desire for Mrs Swan to overwhelm him. He could recall every detail of the way she'd appeared in the bath; her slender back with the tendrils of wet hair dripping down onto the swell of her buttocks, the curve of a breast as she'd turned towards him.

Breathing heavily at the memory he managed to fight the urge to drink long enough to bring himself to a quick release with his good hand and then, after a few deep swallows of the burning liquid, he undressed quickly and fell asleep with his face pressed into a blanket that now smelled of sunshine and reminded him of golden hair.

The next morning Killian was finishing with the milking when Mrs Swan again appeared, all purposeful stride and swinging skirts, the basket she used to collect the eggs in her hand.

"Something took one of the chickens," she said, without preamble and with a certain amount of indignation.

"Aye. Well, it happens. Foxes and the like take them." He gave the white cow a push on her rump to send her out of the barn.

"It broke in. You can see where it's pulled away at a corner of the chicken coop."

"They can be quite the bloody nuisance."

"I think that's an understatement. It'll have to be fixed."

"Aye."

Mrs Swan didn't seem as appeased as he would have expected, given that he'd done nothing but agree with her so far. She pursed her lips and frowned before stating, "So…after breakfast I'll take Henry to school and then I'll help you with that."

With that she turned on her heel and started walking towards the cabin. Killian watched her progress until she stopped, suddenly, as though she'd forgotten something.

"It's breakfast time," Mrs Swan called out, turning around. "You'd better come in."

When he entered the cabin the main topic of conversation was still the stolen chicken. "What do you think took it?" Henry asked Killian, as he joined him at the table.

"Fox?" he ventured. "I don't suppose it really matters."

There was a distinct tutting sound from Mrs Swan which prompted Henry to give him a look that was no doubt meant to convey he'd said the wrong thing.

Having come this far and, more to the point, decided that he would take whatever friendship Mrs Swan was willing to grant him, Killian did not want to jeopardise it now by making the wrong kind of comment about a bloody chicken. Instead he busied himself with eating the bread that had been placed on the table.

It would probably not be a good idea, he decided, to ask if there were any eggs for breakfast.

It turned out that there were, but they were accompanied by a sigh from Mrs Swan and the comment that they were to be enjoyed before all the chickens were carried away in the night.

"If you have to fix the chicken coop again today then maybe I should stay back and help? I'm pretty good with the hammer." Henry smiled confidently, no doubt hoping that his new-found carpentry abilities would sway his mother.

"I don't think so, Henry," she told him.

Henry looked at Killian, some of the hope fading from his face. "Uh, your mother's right. And besides, how will your new friend learn anything if you're not there to share your schoolbook with her?"

"What new friend?" Mrs Swan asked, with far more interest than Henry evidently wanted.

"No one. Just…uh. Grace. She's not really a friend. She just doesn't have a book." He scowled down at the egg on his plate.

"The girl with the flowers?" Mrs Swan asked, which evidently meant something to Henry, because he sighed noisily before nodding in confirmation.

"Well, it's nice to have a friend," she added, airily, standing up from the table and moving towards the stove. "I'm glad you found someone that you like Henry."

"That's what Miss Blanchard said," Henry grumbled. "But I'm almost certain it's only because I have the book. I mean…I don't want anything from her…so…" He looked up and Killian could almost see the moment the previous night's conversation popped back into Henry's mind. "Like Mr Jones…"

Killian really didn't think Henry's ideas of his friendship with Mrs Swan needed to be discussed in front of her. The only option he could see, short of stamping on the boy's foot in order to shut him up, a manoeuvre he did not think would go down well, was to simply start speaking over Henry's words. "You know, Henry, perhaps it's not your skills with a hammer we need, but your skills with the shotgun."

"You do?" Henry's face brightened considerably.

"Aye. You can stand guard all night for your mother. Shoot anything that looks like it's after one of the chickens."

"I can?" Henry's expression was hopeful and Killian thought it almost a shame that he was leading him down the garden path.

After a quick glance in Mrs Swan's direction, to make sure she wasn't unduly concerned with the conversation taking place, he answered. "Aye. You'll be fine, won't you lad? Out there, in the dark. Staying awake so you can keep watch."

"Awake all night?" Henry sounded far less hopeful now.

"Well, you'd have to be. Right through until milking time. And you'd be up nice and early to get a start on that." Killian worked hard at keeping his expression as neutral as possible.

"I don't think that would work out," Henry grumbled. "I mean…I have school, so…I'd have to have to some sleep."

"That's a fair point. Well, never mind. You should concentrate on school. Shame to let stolen chickens get in the way of it." Killian ate the last bite of his egg while Henry considered his words.

"You're…that's teasing. I don't think that's nice. Miss Blanchard wouldn't think it was."

Killian shrugged. "It's just what happens in fa…" He stopped short, not quite ready to mention family to Henry and downright afraid to say it in front of Mrs Swan in case he spooked her. But if either of them caught on to what he was going to say they didn't react; Henry was too busy grumbling about the fact that Killian was flouting all of Miss Blanchard's rules and Mrs Swan, he supposed, was still stuck on the fact a chicken had gone missing.

It was still obviously on her mind when she returned from taking Henry to school and sought him out, the bustle of her skirts and the way she strode across the yard telling him all about her mood before she even opened her mouth. "I just don't understand," she began. "Why the fox…or whatever it is, would bother breaking in to a chicken coop. Surely there are easier things to catch?"

"Not things that are quite so handily all bundled together." Killian began scooping up nails with his hand.

"I suppose," Mrs Swan replied, grudgingly, holding out her own hand to take the nails from him.

"You seem awfully, uh, concerned for the chickens," Killian ventured, unsure if he was treading on dangerous ground.

"I just…" Mrs Swan's mouth clamped shut. "I don't like having things taken from me." She turned and looked towards the chicken coop. "And I feel like I was supposed to do a better job of looking after them."

Mrs Swan looked troubled and Killian could no longer definitively say whether it was only the chickens that were on her mind. Certainly as she held the nail for him as he placed a new board over the one which had been pulled from a corner of the coop she was no longer lamenting the fate of the chicken, but lost in her thoughts.

"There, that should do the trick." Killian pulled, a little, at the replacement board to test it.

"I hope so," Mrs Swan replied, brushing her hands on her apron. "I don't want to have to replace all my chickens."

"They're your chickens now?"

Mrs Swan turned towards him sharply. "Are they not?"

Killian was a little taken aback at the question. "Yes. I suppose they are. Now."

He hoped the answer would please Mrs Swan, but instead she sighed loudly and cast a glance around the yard. "I hadn't really thought much about any of this," she stated, sounding downcast.

"About what, exactly?"

"This. This life…here. I don't really know about chickens…or, or…well the cows are a little terrifying, truth be told. I didn't think, and now I am here, and I don't know how any of this is supposed to work."

It was, quite possibly, the most information about her own feelings that Mrs Swan had ever given him, and Killian was terrified that whatever response he gave her would be inadequate and simply give her more reasons to retreat from him.

"What is it that you wish to know?"

"I want to know…well, everything I suppose. What's in those fields back there?" She pointed off towards the horizon.

"Corn."

"And…eventually there'll be enough to sell?"

"Aye. Well, perhaps. It depends on a lot of things. Droughts, floods, plagues of grasshoppers…"

"Grasshoppers?"

"It happens."

"I see. But…if all those things don't happen, then it should all be fine? There will be something to sell?"

"If you've planted enough."

His words did not seem to be easing the worried frown on Mrs Swan's face and, if he was being honest, he couldn't blame her for worrying. Their one visit to the store would have hardly instilled any confidence in her that the farm would provide enough for all of them, not when he had begged for credit from Miss Lucas.

It was not a position he was happy to be in, and he hoped, in time, to change it. At least, he did now.

For a long time, since even before Liam's death, the management of the farm had been secondary in his mind to his own troubles. Now, he was going to have to set his mind more fully to the tasks at hand. That was if he didn't want his reassurances to Mrs Swan to be nothing more than empty words.

"And have you?" Mrs Swan asked. "Planted enough?"

Killian considered that question. It had been the subject of more than one discussion between Liam and himself before his brother's death and he had to admit that, perhaps, he was beginning to side with Liam on the matter. Even if he was more than a little late in doing so. "I think that perhaps we could always plant more."

"Then that's what we'll do," Mrs Swan said, with a nod as though the matter were settled. And then, for the first time that morning, she ventured a smile at Killian. Not a particularly wide one, granted, but he felt it was genuine all the same.

The topic of their conversation had been mundane but he had enjoyed it all the same for the simple opportunity it afforded him to spend time with Mrs Swan and, perhaps, to start to understand her a little better. He realised that if his plan of gaining her friendship and her trust was to work then he needed to be the kind of person she would want as a friend, to be someone she could trust.

And perhaps that was easier said than done, but, for the first time in a long time, Killian was actually willing to try. More than that, he was willing to allow himself to hope that things would change, that something good might happen. That he might actually deserve some happiness.

It was a feeling he'd almost forgotten.

"So?" Mrs Swan asked, looking around. "When do we plant?"

Her words drew Killian away from his musings and back to the present moment. "Well…first we need to actually clear the land. Then plough it. Then we worry about planting."

"Alright. That's the plan, then." She took a deep breath in and appeared to visibly relax as she let it out. "Will you show me, then? The fields and things?"

"I will."

Walking around the closest fields with Mrs Swan was the longest he had spent in her presence alone since she had arrived at the farm and Killian was surprised at how comfortable it felt. Mrs Swan seemed interested in the crops and how the farm worked and listened intently to the answers he gave.

Eventually she ran out of questions and they found themselves walking side by side over a slight ridge near the field he had promised Mrs Swan they would clear. "You know," she said. "It's different out here."

"Different?"

"Well. Yes. I mean, I knew that life would be different. But everything's different. The air…the light…" she stopped and looked off to the horizon.

"It's not quite like home, is it?" Killian ventured.

Mrs Swan shrugged. "I suppose." She sounded less than convinced about that fact. "Well, I should get back and finish up my chores. But tomorrow, we'll start clearing that field, won't we?"

"We will."

Killian watched Mrs Swan walk away, outlined by the sun's rays and definitely not looking back in his direction. It surprised him to realise how much he missed her presence once she was gone from his sight.

Killian Jones had never been one for routines, for living the same day over and over. He'd bucked against it when they'd first moved here, following Liam somewhat blindly without realising the drudgery involved in the grand schemes Liam had talked of somewhat blithely prior to actually purchasing the farm.

Farming was all very well in theory, he supposed, but in practice it was boring and back-breaking.

So he'd looked for excitement elsewhere and it had led him down a road that he was only just now starting to see the end of. And, there, where it finished was the woman with the golden hair.

In the meantime, while he was still on the journey that, he hoped, would enable him to catch up with Emma Swan, he was starting to appreciate the more mundane aspects of life on the farm. There was something comforting about knowing that there would be dinner, and having Henry tell them about his day at school, and the latest epithets on friendship and kindness his teacher had espoused, and his slight disgruntlement at hearing that the chicken coop had not only been repaired in his absence, but that his mother was just as capable of holding a nail in place as he was.

In actual fact Mrs Swan hadn't flinched in quite the same way Henry had, a fact Killian had noted and filed away for future reference.

And though he had held himself back from mention the word family in the presence of Henry and Mrs Swan that morning Killian couldn't help but think, as Mrs Swan remonstrated with Henry for scraping his plate while trying to get the last drops of gravy onto his spoon, that this almost felt like one.

Almost…and that was surely a promising start, was it not?

Mrs Swan was, undeniably, a little less guarded but he was not so unobservant that he couldn't see that she was also watching him. That every small offering, every plate of food or cup of coffee she pushed his way, every half-smile she gave him when he teased Henry, every time she asked another question about their plans for the next day were all followed by a pause while she measured his reaction to the moment.

They were circling each other, it was true. And he wasn't sure who was going to stop moving first.

The thought of whether he should offer her some token of assurance, some grand gesture to prove his worth to her, kept him lying awake in his bed that night; the desire to drink having been sated by only a few pulls from the bottle as the thoughts swirling in his head proved more potent than the urge to block them out.

It was a very long time since he'd been in that situation.

But sleep did come and it was only the noise in the yard that woke him, abruptly. He had no clear idea of what he'd heard but the overwhelming thought in his mind was of danger, and he scrambled into his shirt and pants before almost throwing himself out the door in his haste to discover the source of the sound.

At first, he couldn't make anything out, the moonlight barely enough to allow him to see a foot or two ahead. And then, somewhere out in that inky blackness, he heard a dull thud combined with a yelp that was more canine than human and that only served to confuse him more thoroughly.

Killian wished that he had thought to locate the shotgun before he came outside and he was torn between going back for it, or pressing on and checking that Henry and Mrs Swan were safe inside the cabin. He cursed his own foolishness; he hadn't thought about the possibility of this happening again and he had left them unprotected, this woman and her child. He'd promised her she'd be safe and no doubt he'd been wrong as he'd been wrong about so many things in his life.

Sometimes, in his blackest moments before he consumed enough alcohol to dull his thoughts and push him into slumber, he felt like he'd never been right about anything.

But then a shape appeared on the edge of the yard and he stopped short, not entirely certain whether it was friend or foe. The shape drew closer eventually revealing itself to be Mrs Swan, with something in her hand. "Mr Jones, is that you?" she asked, and he wondered if he was perhaps intruding rather than rushing to the rescue.

"Yes," he answered, feeling a little embarrassed and quite superfluous. He ran a hand over the sleeve of his left arm and felt the cuff hanging below the stump at his wrist.

"It came back," she continued, as she stopped just in front of him.

"What did?"

"The…whatever it was. The chicken-stealer. I heard it scratching at the boards again, trying to get back in."

"And you chased it off?" The yelp made a little more sense, now. More than the images he'd conjured, anyway, of men bringing dogs and danger and pain onto the property.

"I threw my boot at it."

"You threw your boot?"

"I did." Mrs Swan sounded quite proud of herself. More than that she was smiling, Killian could clearly see the flash of white teeth that accompanied such an expression. "Hopefully it won't be back now, and, more importantly, I got the chicken back. Although I'm afraid it didn't survive the ordeal. Still, at least I can categorically tell you what we will be eating for dinner tomorrow night."

Mrs Swan raised her hand and Killian could just make out the limp form of the dead chicken she was holding.

"And I'm sure the hens will be relieved to know that they have such a valiant protector."

"Phfft. Possibly not if they knew what was about to happen to their sister." Mrs Swan turned the chicken over in her hands. "It's a shame I couldn't save her," she said, sounding a little wistful and less pleased than she had just a moment before. Killian hoped it wasn't a sign that she was about to retreat again, to scurry off inside the cabin because, as odd the situation might be, he was enjoying their odd little conversation in the night. In many ways standing there in the dark discussing the fate of a chicken seemed more intimate than the moment when he'd come upon her in the bath.

Even at the time Killian had realised that was an act Mrs Swan had produced for his benefit, a test to check his resolve. It wasn't the real Mrs Swan. This, the woman pleased with herself for seeing off a predator but a little saddened by not being able to save its target, this woman was stripped of artifice as he had once seen her stripped of her clothing. And he didn't want her to leave him.

"Perhaps. But at least we can give her a good send off," he ventured, gesturing at the chicken with his good hand.

"By eating her?" Mrs Swan sounded dubious.

"It's the honourable way for a chicken to leave this world, I assure you."

"And you'd be willing to make the very great sacrifice, I assume?"

Killian nodded, solemnly. "It would be the proper thing to do."

Mrs Swan took a step closer and he swallowed, trying not to stare too openly. Her nightgown revealed the pale skin of her throat and he was tempted, so very tempted to reach out and run a finger along her collarbone, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.

But they had been down that road before, and his detour, while not bringing him the pleasures he'd hoped for, had brought him a certain level of trust from Mrs Swan that he wasn't quite ready to give up.

Unless she offered herself of course. He was only a man, after all.

"Do you always think with your stomach, Mr Jones?" Her voice brought him back to the conversation at hand. Chicken. They were speaking about the chicken he reminded himself.

"No. I don't, Mrs Swan. Although I will admit to allowing my appetites to rule on occasion."

"Mmm." Mrs Swan stepped closer again, or perhaps it was he who closed the gap between them. Killian couldn't exactly be certain any longer. "Of course you're not the one who has to pluck the thing. Perhaps I should set you that task, given that I was the one who procured the chicken and it is not my favourite job."

"Well, I am always happy to be of service, Mrs Swan. You can set me any task you wish."

Mrs Swan didn't immediately reply and they stood there, each watching the other closely. Killian was suddenly acutely aware of his chest rising and falling with each breath and his heart pounding against his ribs. He felt more alive than he had for a long time.

He wanted to kiss her. Emma. He wanted to know what it would feel like to press his mouth to hers. The world narrowed until he could see were Mrs Swan's lips, not all that far from his own. If he just leaned down, just a little, then they would touch and he would have his answer.

Mrs Swan spoke, suddenly. "Teach me then. To use the shotgun."

Killian hesitated, not certain if this was meant as a warning or not. Did she feel the need to protect herself from him? "You want to learn how to shoot?"

"I do. In case it comes back. For another chicken." Mrs Swan tilted her head to one side and shrugged, the fabric of her nightgown loosening at the shoulder and slipping down to reveal more of her collarbone as she did so. "I think that if Henry can be taught to shoot, then so can I."

"Indeed. It is a splendid idea. And all the chickens will rest easy in the night knowing that you are fully armed and ready to protect them."

"Now you are mocking me, Mr Jones." Mrs Swan put one hand on her hip, but smiled all the same. "I should think that you have had enough of teasing Henry."

"That is a little different, Mrs Swan."

"I'm certain it is. Poor Henry spends his days being schooled in good behaviour by Miss Blanchard and then you flout all the rules in front of him. It's quite a lot for him to take in."

"You think I should stop?"

"No." Mrs Swan bit her lip and looked thoughtful. "I think…I think Henry will learn to cope, in time. He's quite adaptable."

"As is his mother. She's resourceful too. I had not seen footwear used as a weapon before tonight."

"Then you have lived a very sheltered life, Mr Jones."

"Perhaps I have. But, perhaps you will be able to expand my horizons now you are here."

"I rather expected that things will be the other way around. As I said this morning, this is a whole new life for me after all."

"Well. It will be a mutual expansion of our horizons then." Killian chuckled, aware that the conversation was verging on becoming nonsensical, but reluctant to be the first to bid goodnight. He may not be able to touch Mrs Swan, or kiss her, or do any of the things that he longed to do, but he would talk with her for as long as she would allow him to do so.

It was like standing in the sun, being near her.

"Mutual then," she agreed. He watched as her head turned towards the cabin and felt the sun was about to set. "I should get back to bed. We do, after all, have a field to begin work on tomorrow."

"Aye. We do." Killian made no move to leave, and Mrs Swan seemed stuck indecisively to the spot, her gaze moving to the cabin and back to him once again.

"I, for one," he added, when it became clear that Mrs Swan was not in a rush to leave. "Will sleep better knowing that you are here looking out for us poor souls."

Mrs Swan's mouth opened slightly, but no words came out and she still did not start to walk away. On impulse Killian took her hand in his and turned it over, before bringing it to his lips and kissing the palm, gently.

"Thank you, Mrs Swan," he said, in a voice that sounded hoarse even to his own ears. "For taking such good care of us."

He studied her face as she stared at him for so long that he stopped worrying about whether she would run from him, and began to worry that perhaps she was still in possession of the boot she'd used on the fox. Still, she did not attempt to remove her hand from his grasp.

"I…yes," she said, in the end. "Thank you. And good night, Mr Jones." She looked pointedly at her hand, still held in his, and, reluctantly, he released it.

"Good night, Mrs Swan."

Killian watched her form, fuzzy in the moonlight, as she beat a hasty retreat in the direction of the cabin, pausing, as she rounded the corner, to steal one last look in his direction. And then he returned to the hut, and to his own bed, lonely still but, perhaps, not completely without hope.


	12. Chapter 12

Emma had thought she had a very clear idea of the risks involved in agreeing to a marriage of convenience. After all, marrying someone, sight unseen, was hardly a romantic proposition. And Emma had entered enough strange households in her life to understand exactly what problems could arise.

So she had been fully aware that the man who wrote those letters to her might be nothing like the image he presented in his words. Cruelty, neglect, or even just indifference were all possibilities.

But Emma hadn't married the man who wrote to her and she certainly hadn't expected to end up with a husband like Killian Jones, a man who exhibited none of the qualities she feared or expected.

It was awfully confusing. He was awfully confusing, or, at least she was often confused around him.

Perhaps it was a lack of sleep, or the odd little bout of elation she had felt at actually recovering her chicken from the vermin who'd tried to steal it but Emma felt both strangely at ease and terribly uncomfortable around Mr Jones as they stood in the dark of the farmyard.

And then he'd kissed her hand and she'd begun to feel as though things were spinning out of her control. As much as Emma had enjoyed the admiring glances he'd cast her the previous day as she left the bath this seemed a far more dangerous proposition.

Because it wasn't just about the physical relationship that a husband might expect of his wife cruelty, neglect or indifference on his part notwithstanding. This was something else entirely, something far more  _personal_  than Emma had ever expected.

Affection, or even something approximating it, had not been on the list of things Emma thought her new husband would offer her.

It was utterly bewildering. And exhilarating. And, mostly, she was torn between the urge to flee as far as she could and stay around and see what Mr Jones did next in case it was something else equally as pleasant.

But in the end her own empty bed beckoned and there was only so long she could stay in the dark with a dead chicken in her hand.

By the next morning she felt as though things were clearer in her mind. Of course she wanted to think Mr Jones was enamoured with her; she was a woman, after all. It would be so easy to just let herself respond to the advances of a man who clearly enjoyed her company. But in the end it was far better that she keep her heart locked away, just as she had since the day Neal Cassidy had walked out of her life forever. Better to keep herself free of the trauma and pain that trusting a man could bring her.

And Emma was inclined to believe that she was under no illusions where Mr Jones was concerned. His actions could, quite conceivably, be a façade he'd concocted to win her over; although what he could hope to gain from it she wasn't entirely certain. It wasn't as though he couldn't simply demand if not her affection, then certainly her submission, to any desires he might entertain. A marriage of convenience was still a marriage, and Emma had always known there was a great deal of such an arrangement that was purposed for the man's convenience and not the woman's.

She was a little lost as to what exactly the point of his game might be, if it was a game, but all the same quite prepared to just wait and see if she could figure it out.

There were other concerns, anyway, such as Henry's insistence that she re-live her encounter with the chicken-thief from the night before. "You really threw a boot?" he asked, having been, apparently, apprised of the story by Mr Jones as they milked the cows.

"I did. Eat your breakfast."

"But why a boot?"

The truth seemed like the best option to satisfy Henry's interest in the story. "It was the first thing I could lay a hand on when I woke up. And it seemed to do the trick."

Henry sighed, and didn't seem all that appeased. "But I didn't wake up," he complained. "How could I not wake up?"

"Well…I didn't throw it very noisily." Emma gave him a little shrug. "And you do sleep quite heavily."

Henry looked less than pleased with that comment, but it was the truth and Emma was glad of it. Glad that her son had, at least, had a pleasant enough childhood that he did not have to spend his nights wakeful and wary as she did.

It was a good thing that Henry slept like the dead.

"But Mr Jones woke up," Henry protested, as the man in question entered the cabin for breakfast.

"Aye. Well, noises in the yard will do that." Emma watched him, perhaps a little too carefully, as he sat down at the table. The trouble with that was that it was clear that Mr Jones was watching her too, no doubt attempting to gauge the appropriate reaction to whatever response she had to his presence.

It was exhausting, but also exciting, this constant dance taking place between the two of them. And Emma was more than a little unsure as to who was leading. She knew that if she smiled, Mr Jones would smile in return and his posture would relax somewhat, as though he had been worried that she might revoke his welcome to the breakfast table.

But it was also a given that at some point the smiles she was prepared to dole out wouldn't be enough for Mr Jones and he would begin teasing Henry, giving her knowing looks over her son's shoulder and Emma would find it hard not to smile, despite pressing her lips together, and her eyes would widen in a kind of warning which just seemed to encourage Mr Jones further.

It was, Emma thought, almost like a kind of courtship ritual, even though she was inclined to believe that such things were unnecessary given the fact they were already married, and once again, she had no idea what it was he attempted to gain from courting her.

And while there was a voice in her head urging her to just play along there was also one who kept reminding her what the consequences could be, should she forget he was most likely playing a game.

"I don't understand why no one woke me up. I could have helped," Henry complained, obviously not prepared to be easily dismissed.

"I…" Emma was about to reply that she hadn't really needed any help, but the look on Henry's face stopped her. "It probably wasn't worth disturbing you. It was over so quickly. And you needed your sleep."

"I would have been alright, Mama." There was a slightly exasperated tone to his voice now, as though he was struggling to understand why Emma might not have wanted to include him.

"The important thing, Henry," Mr Jones interjected. "Is that your mother is none the worse for wear after her night-time excursion. In fact, she's still as fresh as a daisy this morning, and just as lovely as ever." He finished with a smile in Emma's direction as he sat down at the table.

Emma didn't trust herself to say anything in response to that, although she could feel her face smiling at Mr Jones despite her reluctance to reward him. In a desperate attempt to temper it, she frowned as well which, she reflected, no doubt accounted for the way Mr Jones' eyes scanned her face trying to make sense of the expression she now wore.

Emma couldn't make sense of it herself, so she wished him all the luck in the world.

"And I, for one, am glad of that fact," Mr Jones continued, his eyes still on Emma as she placed a peeled egg in front of him. "After all, I'll be the one spending the day in her company. Be a shame if lack of sleep stopped her being her usual delightful self."

Emma considered whether or not there was an obvious reply to that statement which wouldn't end up with her denying that she had any charm and thus looking like a fool.

Whatever his game was, it appeared that Mr Jones was actually quite good at it.

Henry looked similarly confused by Mr Jones' words but for differing reasons. "Well…I don't know." His eyes flicked to Emma, as though assessing how safe it was to voice his thoughts about her in her presence. Unlike Mr Jones, he seemed to still have some sense of propriety.

"It's different, I suppose, when Mama isn't making you have a bath all the time. Probably that is delightful," he said in the end.

Emma thought she should probably chastise Henry for his cheek, but she wasn't sure she had it in her at the moment. She was mostly concerned with the idea of spending an entire day, alone, with Mr Jones. How many compliments could he possibly lavish on her and, more to the point, if she hadn't chastised him for any of them, was it too late now?

She was lost in her own thoughts when Mr Jones' voice broke through her reverie. "Are you joining us?"

"I…um…oh. Shortly." Emma had remained near the stove under the pretence of having something else to do, but under the watchful eye of Mr Jones it was hard to maintain her charade, although she made a valiant effort by remaining where she was and refusing to look in the direction of the table.

Mr Jones clearly turned his attention to Henry and she could hear him say "I'm sure that your seat-partner at school is glad your mother has such a strict bathing policy. I doubt she'd want to share a book with anyone who smelt too much like the cows."

"I…just…no," Henry said, clearly horrified by the notion that the girl Grace might care about the way he smelt. Or perhaps he just didn't like the idea of smelling like a cow in the first place. Emma wasn't entirely certain. "I don't need to have a bath just to go to  _school_."

And then Mr Jones laughed, and Henry grumbled a few words that Emma didn't quite catch, and something twisted in her stomach and stopped her taking the three steps across the floor to the table which, even she realised, was a little ridiculous.

After all, Emma had known when she made the journey to Kansas that she wasn't coming here just so that she could find herself a husband. The reason she'd been so willing to accept an arrangement which was hardly likely to turn out in her favour had been Henry, and the chance to give him a family.

And now that's exactly what he was getting. At least, it seemed to be what Mr Jones was promising. It hadn't escaped Emma's attention that Mr Jones himself had all but told Henry he needed to get used to the teasing that came with a family.

But Emma was still wary, still waiting for it all to disappear, still suspicious that she would actually end up with anything akin to what had been promised. Too many years of being unwanted, too many broken promises, and too much hurt all conspired against the belief she could ever find any happiness in her life.

And the worst part was that she could feel the wariness creeping into her bones, telling her not to sit at the table and she knew exactly how she'd come to this point; all the families she'd lived with where she'd been deemed unsuitable, or worse, and then the brief entanglement with Neal that she preferred not to dwell on. It was far easier to view all of that as though it had happened to some other girl despite the dark and twisty thoughts it left in her mind.

"Mrs Swan? You should eat something. It's a long day ahead." Mr Jones' voice brought her out of the dark path her thoughts were leading her on.

"You're right," she conceded, finally sitting down and helping herself to a slice of bread. Emma ignored the way Mr Jones smiled at her as though he'd won some kind of prize by finally getting her to join Henry and himself for breakfast.

He was correct; it was certainly going to be a long day ahead if it was to be spent alone in a field with Mr Jones.

Henry eschewed Emma's offer to accompany him to school after breakfast insisting that he was more than familiar with the route to take now, and it left her free to carry out a few tasks, like plucking the chicken from the previous night, before Mr Jones would no doubt seek her out to help him in the field as she had promised.

Emma tried to pretend that she wasn't waiting for that moment with a mixture of anticipation and dread because, married or not, the fact that she might be suddenly arranging her life around a man seemed anathema to her.

It was better, she decided, to seek him out instead. Better to take the bull by horns or face her demons or whatever ill-fitting phrase you wanted to apply to the scenario.

And if Emma was almost looking forward to seeing if her arrival elicited the same warm response from Mr Jones that merely sitting across the table from him did, then she simply wasn't going to admit that at all.

But, when she found him in the hut where he resided he seemed flustered more than pleased with her appearance and it left Emma even more confused about his feelings towards her. Only after she'd agreed to wait for him beside the barn did she realise the cause of his concern and the reason he'd repeatedly run his right hand down his left arm when she'd approached him. Mr Jones had clearly not been wearing his hook, and the fact had bothered him greatly

When he appeared beside the barn the hook was in place and he seemed in a much better humour. "I hope you're prepared to carry out your promise," he said, in a way that was altogether suggesting of some other promise she'd made to him besides the one about working in the field.

Emma certainly hoped he wasn't alluding to the marriage vow about obeying.

"I do keep my promises, you know," was the best response she could think of under the circumstances.

"So do I," Mr Jones assured her, as he handed her a hoe to carry.

"This is…I see I am allowed tools now. Not so long ago I couldn't be trusted with a simple length of rope."

Mr Jones smiled, a little enigmatically. "Yes," was all the reply she got on the subject and, as frustrating as she had found his playful banter at times, she would have gladly welcomed its return right then as it was far easier to dismiss as nonsense Mr Jones was spouting for his own amusement, or to cover up his previous embarrassment. This just seemed a little too earnest, a little too genuinely happy to be part of some charade he was playing and she didn't know what to do about that at all.

They walked out to the field in silence, Emma carrying both the hoe and a small bundle of muslin into which she'd hastily packed some bread and two hard-boiled eggs. She was still managing to scrape together enough food for their meals, but only just, and another trip to the store would be required before too long, bringing with it the same need for money to actually pay for the provisions.

But Emma would cross that bridge when she came to it.

In the meantime she had other problems such as mastering the hoe once they got to the field and began work. She watched Mr Jones closely, although he managed mostly one-handed and she had to adapt her own style a little. Still, she discovered that she was not too awful at the process as long as she didn't swing the thing around too much; Mr Jones flinched more than once when she got a little too close to his head.

Eventually she found a suitable rhythm and discovered that, while the work could not quite be described as enjoyable, it was certainly a welcome distraction. Fresh air and physical activity allowed her to forget the fact she was in such a strange place with a strange man as her husband. In fact, after a while, she almost forgot about Mr Jones' presence altogether. It was only when he suggested stopping to eat that she realised how long they'd been working.

Mr Jones spread the jacket he'd discarded earlier in the morning on a patch of bare earth. "Sit here," he offered, giving the jacket a small pat.

Emma sat, and began unwrapping the bread, before passing some to Mr Jones who took it from her with a smile. "How has your first morning as a farmhand been?"

She considered what the appropriate response to that should be, while twisting a chunk of bread between her fingers. Mr Jones sighed. "I didn't mean it to be a difficult question, Mrs Swan."

Emma flinched a little. Now she'd offended him when that had been the outcome she'd been trying to avoid in the first instance. "I am sorry that I am not the best companion," she stated, keeping her eyes on the horizon. Mr Jones was to her left and the broad brim of her bonnet kept him from her view, something that, she hoped, might make conversation a little easier.

"On the contrary, you are infinitely preferable to other people I have worked with. For one thing, you haven't seen fit to tell me that I'm working too slowly, or that I lack the proper technique."

Emma risked a glance in Mr Jones' direction. "Your brother?"

"Aye." Mr Jones chuckled and pushed his hat further back on his head. "I'm afraid that where Liam is concerned I'll always be the  _little_  brother."

There was silence as they both contemplated what had been said. "I mean, I  _was_  the little brother," Mr Jones said, in a much quieter voice that had completely lost the jovial tone from just a moment before. He seemed lost in his own contemplation of a far-off point in the landscape now and Emma was struck with the sudden urge to reach out and offer him some comfort, a pat on the hand or a squeeze of the arm, perhaps.

She suppressed that feeling as quickly as she could.

"Well, I confess that my first morning working in a field has not been as bad as I feared," Emma stated, speaking quickly and mostly addressing her remarks to the grasses still untouched on the field in front of them. "I find it almost refreshing being out here. Certainly it is preferable to facing more time with that stove."

She waited to see what the response would be from Mr Jones, hoping that she had not inadvertently stirred further memories of his brother.

"Well," he said in the end. "I should have to thank the stove for driving you out here, perhaps. Otherwise I should be quite alone. And how would I manage all of this, then?" He waved his arm in an outward arc, pointing towards the field.

"I think, perhaps, that if you were the one dealing with the stove every day you would not be so quick to sing its praises."

Mr Jones laughed at her reply and Emma felt a sudden warmth in her chest which, she guessed, was only partly due to the sun currently beating down on her from above. Still, the sun seemed the safest thing to blame it on, and she untied her bonnet, before peeling it from her sweaty hair and using it to fan herself.

There was silence between them, Mr Jones seemingly more interested in eating than making conversation and Emma concentrating hard on the process of fanning the bonnet and not on anything to do with Mr Jones at all. It worked exceedingly well until he spoke, again. "Other than your merciless persecution by the stove…it's not so bad, here…is it?"

The question seemed a treacherous one, far more dangerous to answer than his earlier enquiry about her morning's work. She wished, vehemently, that she had some kind of task that she could claim as pressing which would give her leave to flee the scene. But, sadly, out here she was not only free of the hated stove, but of all the other domestic chores which usually dominated her day.

There was nothing for it, but to answer Mr Jones. "It is…" Emma paused, attempted to gather her thoughts, and decided now was not the time for trying to conceal her true feelings even if they were perhaps not what Mr Jones wanted to hear.

"It is refreshing to find myself free of my usual constraints," she finished, waiting to see what Mr Jones' reply would be.

None was forthcoming, and she began to wonder if perhaps she had over-stepped her boundaries again and merely fulfilled Mr Jones' suspicions that she was not the type of woman he should have married.

She was about to pack up the remains of their food and begin work again when he suddenly spoke. "I have constrained you?"

It was, quite possibly, the last question she'd thought he might ask of her. In truth she'd expected that he had filed her candid answer away for another time, a time when it would be used as proof that she had committed whatever transgression she would no doubt be punished for. She had not foreseen that it might prompt Mr Jones into making further enquiries.

Emma looked over at him and the concern was written so vividly on his face that it was possible to believe that it might be genuine. She hesitated, and then gave the most honest answer she could. "Mr Jones, life has constrained me. Being here, in Kansas, for the most part, changes nothing. But I am enjoying the chance to spend time away from my usual tasks. I am not the most suited for a life of nothing but keeping house."

It was certainly freeing, confessing her failures in such a forthright manner. Now, at least, Mr Jones could do whatever he wanted with the information but he could never accuse of her trying to deceive him. At least not as far as her feelings on the matter of her role were concerned.

Emma watched carefully as Mr Jones' expression turned from concerned to thoughtful, attempting to judge just how her words were to be taken.

"And, yet, you were a housekeeper," he said in the end, as though trying to make sense of some great puzzle she'd laid before him.

"I was, but it was a job borne more of necessity more than anything else. Although it did have some merits."

"You needed to work because of Henry?"

"Well. Yes. Not that I regret his existence, of course," Emma added hurriedly, lest Mr Jones think she was an unwilling and unfit mother as well. "But I know that I was lucky to find a job that afforded me the chance to both keep my son and to occasionally visit with him. Others in the same circumstances would not be so fortunate. I would not want you think I am ungrateful towards my former employer, nor that I resent the tasks he set for me. It was just…well. I feel infinitely more suited to being a farm hand than I do a housekeeper. So as you asked me, it is indeed not so bad here. In some ways, it's better."

Mr Jones nodded slowly. "And those benefits…the outdoors and, I would assume, having Henry all the time…they outweigh what you had to do to get here, no doubt?"

Emma's mouth suddenly felt dry and her tongue a little too big for her mouth. She had the distinct impression that they had now wandered into altogether dangerous territory. What exactly did Mr Jones mean when he spoke of the things she had to do to get here? She hoped he might elaborate, but his eyes were searching hers, as though she might inadvertently reveal something to him.

"I…uh." Emma dropped her gaze to the folds of her apron across her lap. "Yes. I suppose they do."

"Then that seems a good answer to my question," Mr Jones said, standing up and holding out his hand to Emma. She took it and let him help her up, feeling far too confused by the conversation they'd just had to really notice how she much she liked how firm and warm his hand felt as it held hers. It was only when he released her that its absence alerted her to the fact.

Emma was glad to tie her bonnet back on and begin work again. Digging up plants and piling rocks in a corner seemed an even more pleasant task now that she knew the alternative were further discussions of her feelings with Mr Jones.

She didn't understand why he cared anyway. What did it matter if she thought this place better or worse than any other? She was here now, and it was…well, it was forever?

And then, with a jolt to the heart she realised that maybe it wasn't, and she hoped, very much, that her answers had, indeed, been satisfactory.

They worked through the afternoon and returned to the farm to find a rather disgruntled Henry feeding the chickens in their absence. "I came home and no one was here, Mama," he complained. "I was worried I'd have to do everything. What were you doing?"

"Working," Mr Jones replied, while Emma tried not to feel too guilty over Henry's words. Surely he must know that they hadn't abandoned him?

"What were you doing, Mr Jones?" Henry pressed.

"Training my new farmhand in the ancient art of clearing a field."

Henry's frown deepened at that comment. "You mean Mama?"

"I do." Mr Jones walked towards the barn, clearly with the intention of putting his own hoe back, and Emma followed. Henry caught up to her, and eyed the hoe curiously.

"You were in the field, too?" he asked, as though he suspected that Mr Jones was once again teasing him.

"I was, Henry."

Henry's face suggested he found something wrong with that fact, but was too polite to say it. Or maybe not. "But if you were there…who was in the house?"

"I don't need to be there all the time." Emma passed the hoe to Mr Jones who had held out his hand for it.

Henry still seemed unsatisfied but Emma was unsure what, exactly, would satisfy him at this point. "I'm going to get dinner started," she said, turning towards the cabin.

"Mrs Swan?" The sound of Mr Jones calling after her, made her turn back again. "I thought you might like that lesson now."

"Oh. Yes." Emma wiped her hands on her apron feeling a little torn. During the day's work she'd almost forgotten about the promise to teach her to shoot that she'd elicited from Mr Jones in the night and remembering it brought back some of the other feelings from the night as well.

"I should, uh…just put the chicken in to start cooking." Emma set off for the cabin and, after a few paces, realised that Henry was trailing after her. She wondered if he was intending to ensure she remained in her designated location and didn't venture outside the confines of the kitchen area for the rest of the day.

And, indeed, at first Henry was content to merely observe her actions as she readied the chicken for cooking, but, when she'd shut the door on the stove he finally spoke up. "What do you have to learn now, Mama?"

Emma pushed a stray piece of hair off her face. "Mr Jones is going to teach me to shoot. In case the fox comes back again."

"It might not be a fox."

"It might not. But something was stealing the chicken."

Henry sighed. It was obvious he didn't much appreciate the fact that Emma wasn't adhering to his notions of how a suitable mother should act.

"Maybe you should come and help teach me as well?" she ventured.

Henry didn't brighten as she'd hoped he would at that suggestion but he did follow her back outside to meet up with Mr Jones again.

"Are you coming to observe?" Mr Jones asked Henry, and the boy nodded in return but his sullen silence remained. Mr Jones gave Emma a quizzical look which she had no reply to, and then they set off for an area a way past the buildings.

Her worry about Henry's mood had eclipsed any worry Emma might have felt about just how exactly the lesson was going to go. She certainly hadn't even contemplated the way in which Mr Jones might show her how to aim the gun and the fact that it would entail him standing behind her while positioning her arms. And if she had thought that feeling her hand in his had been stirring then the heat of his chest as it brushed her back and the way that his breath ran past her ear as he explained the process to her were something altogether more exciting.

But the excitement of both Mr Jones and the thrill of actually finding out that she could, quite capably, if not overly accurately, fire the shotgun was tempered by the figure of Henry hovering on the edges of the scene, scuffing at the dirt and looking for all the world like a disapproving chaperone. Something about the situation clearly did not sit well with him and it made Emma uneasy and anxious to hurry back to the cabin as soon as she could. Clearly she had overestimated Henry's ability to adapt to his new surroundings and finding out that his mother was hardly the paragon of womanly virtue that he'd hoped for had unsettled him.

After excusing herself from Mr Jones, who managed to muster the appearance of being sorry to see her go, she called Henry to join her on the walk back to the cabin. Finding something to speak to him about, without directly addressing the disappointment he was no doubt feeling, was an altogether more difficult matter.

"So, how was school today?" Emma ventured, hoping that was a safe topic.

"It was alright, I suppose, Mama." Henry didn't sound all that enthusiastic, but then his expression changed, as he thought of something he had to add. "But Miss Blanchard asked me if I could..." Henry stopped walking and stood up straighter, head cocked to the side and words running together as if he'd been asked to memorise this little speech. "Request that you call into the schoolroom tomorrow when class is finished, if it's convenient, as she has a matter she hopes you can assist her with."

Henry smiled warmly, looking pleased with his achievement. Emma tried to keep her features as neutral as possible while she attempted to ascertain exactly why Miss Blanchard might need to speak to her. "Why? What, uh…has happened?"

"Nothing!" Henry replied, vehemently. "Why would you think I did something?"

"I was merely asking what might have prompted the request." Emma realised that she sounded a little defensive and that, unfortunately, it left her on the back foot as far as this conversation went. But she'd clearly upset Henry already and this was just adding fuel to an already well-stoked fire.

"I don't know, Mama. But I passed the message on like I was asked. I thought that was what you'd want me to do."

Emma was still suspicious. She may not have exactly been to school when she was Henry's age, but she'd had enough adults disappointed in her to know that there was a, very real, chance that he'd somehow let Miss Blanchard down. However, she was also well aware that she had let Henry down by not living up to the model of motherhood he held in his head, and she felt her transgression laying heavy in her heart.

In the end she conceded defeat. "I'm sure that's the case, Henry. I'll go tomorrow, as requested."

"I think Miss Blanchard would be happy with that, Mama." Silence fell and it seemed that neither of them really knew what to say next. Emma opted for sending Henry on an errand, hoping that might help him get past the current disgruntlement he was feeling.

"Could you dig up some potatoes from the garden?" she asked, and Henry looked thoughtful.

"Yes, Mama. But I might just…I just need to check something with Mr Jones first."

"Alright." Wary of pushing him any further Emma let Henry go and went to check on the chicken she had roasting and make other preparations for dinner and resolutely not dwell on the way it felt when Mr Jones had put his arms around her.

She'd liked the way he looked at her, and, it appeared, she liked the way he touched her even more. But it was far more problematic to go searching for that sort of reaction from Mr Jones and better that she stay in the cabin and please Henry with her adherence to proper womanly tasks.

Although she waited, and waited, and neither Henry nor the potatoes she'd requested arrived at the cabin and, eventually, she had no choice but to collect them herself. When Mr Jones found her she was on her hands and knees digging with an old rusty trowel she'd found lying beside the edge of the garden.

Emma turned to find him standing, watching her, with a slightly bemused expression on his face. "I sent Henry to get potatoes," she explained, while continuing to poke around in the dirt with little success. "But I fear he has neglected to actually carry out the task."

"Ah." Mr Jones screwed up one side of his face and looked in the direction of the barn. "I'm afraid that's my fault."

"What is?"

"Henry's, uh, disappearance. He was following me around and I suggested that he might like to feed the cows and get them settled for the night if he had nothing else to do."

"Oh." Emma went back to scrabbling in the dirt only to find herself joined by Mr Jones who knelt next to her and watched her movements for a moment or two before joining in her search for potatoes, using his hook to dig.

He turned up several in quick succession and Emma stopped digging and sat back on her heels. "You seem to be a great deal more successful than I," she commented.

"Aye, well. It's not a completely useless implement," Mr Jones conceded with a shrug. He seemed to be a little embarrassed about mentioning it, and kept his eyes on the digging.

"Perhaps I should have sent you to collect these for dinner instead of Henry, or myself. I do remember you promising me you'd do any task I ask."

Mr Jones inclined his head. "Of course. You need only to ask me and I will do whatever you wish, my…" He stopped short, finishing with an embarrassed noise approximating a cough.

"I suppose wife is the most appropriate term," Emma ventured, thinking that the term, as applied to herself, did seem odd and out of place mostly because she wasn't used to being anyone's anything. She certainly hoped that Mr Jones didn't think she blamed him for not immediately saying the word, but yet she was curious about his feelings on the matter.

But there was no clear answer from the man next to her. He was silent for a moment and then began again on a different topic altogether. "As much as I wish to honour my promise to do your bidding, I do fear that Henry will not be pleased if he finds I have sought out your company once again. I believe that was his sole purpose in shadowing me earlier; keeping me well away from you."

"Henry? But why?"

Mr Jones turned his gaze on her fully and Emma remained as still as she could, fearful that even a blink or a sigh could give away the furious rhythm her heat was currently beating. "I think he fears I may steal you away." He chuckled somewhat, as though that was the most ridiculous thing ever but the mirth never reached his eyes. Their dark blue depths remained locked on Emma's, as though hoping to find confirmation in them. Of what, Emma wasn't sure.

And she certainly wasn't convinced of his reasoning. "I don't think Henry's problems are with you. It's your task he's completing, for one thing. I'm fairly certain that he is a little, well…unsure how to deal with a mother who doesn't act like a mother should. He is, after all, used to living in Aunt Regina's rather more conventional household. I, on the other hand, have been sighted using a shotgun this afternoon. His face at that time spoke volumes, I believe."

There was a pause while Mr Jones looked as though he was considering her comments and she watched as his tongue swiped across his bottom lip. "If you think so," he said, at last. "You're his mother, I'll bow to your judgement in the matter. Now, what shall I do with these?" He gestured to the small pile of potatoes laying on the ground next to them.

"Here." Emma twisted towards Mr Jones and held out her apron. "I'll carry them in like this."

Mr Jones valiantly scooped up some of the potatoes awkwardly with one hand, and deposited them in the apron Emma was holding out, and then repeated the process a few more times getting closer to Emma each time. As he tipped the last potatoes in their foreheads all but brushed against each other and Emma had no choice but to look straight at Mr Jones' face as they raised their heads.

"Thank you," she said to him.

"You're welcome." Emma felt as though he wanted to say something else, but he stood up and brushed the dirt from his knees with his hand. "I should probably check that Henry hasn't been trampled by a cow."

"And I suppose these potatoes won't peel themselves." Emma carried her load carefully into the cabin before she was the one who added something else to the conversation, or did something she'd regret even more. Something like close the gap between their faces and kiss Mr Jones.

And, really, he had been helpful enough but he hardly deserved a kiss for that task, she reasoned, choosing to ignore the fact that she was almost curious enough about what it would be like to kiss him, and whether it would be as pleasant as she believed it might be.

Mr Jones arrived in the cabin along with Henry just as Emma was preparing to serve dinner; he seemed to have a sixth sense about when food was about to be offered. "I think your owe your mother an apology," he said, before sitting at the table.

"Sorry, Mama. I just…forgot about the potatoes," Henry mumbled, and Emma gestured for him to sit down, ready to move on even if she wasn't entirely convinced that she knew the full story.

They ate mostly in silence, Henry appearing less inclined to regale them with stories from the classroom than he was the day before. Emma kept her eyes on her plate, not daring to risk lifting them enough to face Mr Jones watching her, or Henry's disapproving glare once again.

Only when the evening was over and Mr Jones was safely ensconced in his own hut, did she dare to face Henry full-on as she was tucking him into bed. "I am…" she paused, trying to quell the worry that bubbled up from the pit of her stomach. "Sorry if you were disappointed in me today, Henry."

Henry frowned. "No. I mean…I hadn't thought, I suppose. That you needed a friend too."

That flummoxed Emma. "A friend?"

"Yes. I mean, I knew…well, sort of knew, that Mr Jones wanted to be your friend. He agreed about the bath. But I hadn't thought…you're my mother." His voice dropped down to almost a whisper. "I really just wanted to have you as a mother."

Henry looked a little sheepish and Emma found it hard to blame Henry for wanting his mother to himself. At least, that's what she believed he was confessing to.

"I…well, that's fine Henry. I'm not upset."

"No? Good. I mean, I couldn't figure it out at first. Why you were being so…uh, tolerant."

"Tolerant?"

"Yes. Of Mr Jones. When he was showing you how to shoot. He was standing awfully close." Emma's heart dropped as she wondered if she had misunderstood Henry's little confession, but he continued on, unabashed. "Miss Blanchard told Grace to be more tolerant today, after I accidentally hit her with my elbow. She didn't believe it was an accident."

"Who? Miss Blanchard?" Emma wondered if this was the reason for the request to call and see the teacher.

"No. Grace didn't. She complained to Miss Blanchard." Henry contemplated that for a moment. "You don't have anyone to complain to about Mr Jones, I suppose. But you…I guess you could tell him yourself?"

"I suppose I could."

"But it's better to be tolerant." Henry nodded. "At least, Miss Blanchard thinks so. And Mr Jones said you were friends."

"He did?"

"Yes. I didn't ask him though, in case you thought that was a bad thing," Henry added, quickly. "I was with him in the barn, you know, when I forgot about the potatoes." He paused, clearly waiting to see if a reprimand was coming and, when none arrived, he picked up his story again. "He said I didn't have to worry because he was your friend. So I guess you can let him know, if he's doing something you don't like."

Emma wished that life was that simple, but she nodded anyway.

"Because I don't think Miss Blanchard would come here and tell Mr Jones to be careful with his extremities." Henry paused again. "Do you think she needs a friend?"

"Who?"

"Miss Blanchard. Maybe that's why she wants to see you?"

"It's possible." In the back of her mind Emma was still certain that there was some reason Miss Blanchard needed her other than as a friend, but she didn't want to alarm Henry. He seemed to be feeling better, or, at least, he was no longer holding a grudge towards her personally and she wanted to keep it that way as long as she could.

"Goodnight, Mama," Henry said, a little sleepily.

"Goodnight, Henry."

With Henry asleep, Emma decided that she would make one final check of the chicken coop, simply because she wanted to avoid having to run out in the middle of the night, again. At least, that was what she told herself when she realised that there was a possibility that she might cross paths with Mr Jones once more before she went to her own bed.

She poked and prodded the corners of the coop, checking that there were no gaps or loose boards. The sky was quite dark now and she wondered if Mr Jones had already retired for the night, but purely because it gave her something to think about while she was checking, and not because she was finding herself curious about what he did when he wasn't around her.

Finally, there was nothing left to check, the coop appeared to be as safe for the chickens as it could be. She left them to their night's slumber and, tightening her shawl around her shoulders, she started making her way back to the cabin when she saw a familiar shape rounding the corner of the barn.

"And how fare your chickens tonight, Mrs Swan?"

"I believe they will be safe," Emma replied.

"And, should any trouble loom, you will be ever-vigilant, I suppose?" Emma had stopped dead in her tracks when she'd spotted him and now he was right in front of her, illuminated only by the small strips of light from the lamp in the cabin which shone through the gaps in the boards and onto the inky black ground around them.

"I suppose." Emma sighed, a little.

"But they are not the real cause of your dissatisfaction."

"It seems I was wrong about Henry. He seems to have brightened since the afternoon and I believe that you are the reason why."

"I am?" Mr Jones sounded a little unsure.

"You are. Well, that and a well-timed lecture on tolerance prompted by a too-small desk and some wayward elbows."

"That would be from the schoolmistress?"

"It was," Emma confirmed.

"But what do I have to do with that?"

"Because apparently you are willing to be my friend, or, at least, you told Henry we are friends. And he, in return, is gracious enough to concede that I may be in need of one. And so…" Emma wasn't entirely sure what her point was, mostly she was testing Mr Jones' reaction to the news. A reaction, which so far, was not forthcoming. "Now we are friends," she finished.

There was a pause, and she heard, rather than saw, Mr Jones shuffle his feet and move to scratch his ear. "I hate to, uh…well. I must confess, Mrs Swan, that is not what I told Henry at all. I never said we were friends."

"You didn't?" Emma's disappointment was quite plain in her voice, she thought, and somewhere in the back of her mind she felt a modicum of embarrassment for that fact. Clearly she had misjudged the situation, and Mr Jones. And now she had played her hand and would lose anything she might have won to date in this game between them.

"No. I'm afraid that what I told Henry was that you were perfectly safe with me. That I wouldn't…" His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "That I won't hurt you. That I intend to look after you. So he needn't worry about you."

"Oh." Emma thought about that. "And that does not make us…friends?" It was not a term that she had ever thought she might confuse, but it seemed that between herself and Mr Jones there was, indeed, confusion.

"I…Emma, we're married." Hearing it stated that plainly by the man in front of her sent a maelstrom of emotions running through Emma's heart and mind. She hated it and she adored it at the same time that she was tied to Killian Jones in this way. And she hated and, perhaps, although she would never concede it, not even with her dying breath, she adored him for it.

She began to wish that she had merely gone to bed and never ventured out into the yard.

Emma looked at the wall of the cabin beside them while Mr Jones continued on, in an urgent voice. "Despite what you might think, I did not marry you simply so that I would have a friend, or the fairest farmhand in Storybrooke, or even someone who will protect the chickens at the expense of her own sleep. I married you, so you would be my wife." He stepped closer and it was all Emma could do not to step back. "I won't force you to do anything you don't want to, and I won't constrain you, and I will, I promise, be your friend if that is what you need to feel comfortable here. But I want to be more than that and I hope, one day, you will feel the same way."

Emma stood stock still waiting for what came next because surely this was it, this was the moment when he pressed his claim on her and everything that came before was swept away in a tide of obligation to the man who had agreed to take her on. All his heated looks and promises meant nothing after all; it had simply been a charade which she'd eagerly fallen for.

But when push came to shove she wasn't prepared to unlock her heart from the prison she'd placed it in and she was afraid that Mr Jones would merely take what he could from her instead.

"I'm sorry." Mr Jones' voice broke through her thoughts. "If I have made you uncomfortable. I just…thought you should know."

"They were…I do appreciate your words," Emma managed to reply.

"There were not meant as just words. There are promises behind them too. Promises I intend to keep. Will you let me show you?" Mr Jones reached forward and clasped Emma's hand in his but she kept her gaze on the wall, fearful that turning to face him again would give away the fact that she almost believed him.

"Yes," Emma whispered. "I will."

"Then that is all I will ask of you. A chance. To be the husband you deserve."

In Emma's mind the husband she deserved was someone far different to the man Mr Jones was promising to be, but she acquiesced with a small "Yes."

"And now I suppose I should let you return to your bed, lest your nemesis reappear tonight." He made no move, however, to drop her hand and Emma was reluctant to pull it away. She wondered if he might move to kiss it, again, as he had the night before and she found herself rather longing that he would, that he would do anything other than regale her with fine words and promises which could easily be broken.

At least she could enjoy being in his arms while she still had a chance of believing it might come true. And maybe that was all she could offer him in return, anyway. She could give him her body because her heart was lost a long time ago.

Emma very nearly did make some move towards Mr Jones, almost thought of offering herself, once again, just to see if he would accept her this time and with the hope that she could block out her own fears for the brief time of their coupling. But while she hesitated the moment was lost and Mr Jones released her hand. "Goodnight, Mrs Swan."

She watched for a moment, as he walked into the darkness, and then she heard a voice she only belatedly recognised as her own call out. "Mr Jones?"

"Yes?"

Having stopped him in his tracks with no clear plan, Emma stumbled over her words as he walked back towards her. "I, uh…that is. I suppose…" she laughed, ruefully. "I am not much one for words, as you can tell. But…perhaps a sign of good faith, instead?"

With a deep breath she stepped right up to Mr Jones and placed one hand on his chest, just below his shoulder, noticing how it rose and fell as he waited to see what she'd do next. He was real, this was real, and the thought almost made her run. But, steeling herself, Emma reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips felt both the sharp brush of his whiskers and softness of the skin underneath. She felt his face move; the mouth curving into a smile almost before she'd actually touched him.

Emma stepped back, feeling less than pleased with herself. She'd made him a promise now, offered him something of herself, but it was a promise as empty as the air she had breathed onto his cheek as she kissed him. She was a shell of a woman and she'd be a shell of a wife.

But all that seemed to escape Mr Jones at the present time. "That's uh…good faith. Yes. I think that is, indeed, good faith." He chuckled to himself and, when she caught a glimpse of his face through the darkness, he looked as though she'd given him something wonderful, which only made Emma feel worse.

"I will see you in the morning. Sleep well, Mr Jones." Emma walked back to the cabin and, after extinguishing the lamp, climbed into her high, cold bed. It took her a long time to fall asleep, although it wasn't the prospect of a returning fox that troubled her the most; her own thoughts were far more worrisome. She had spent years and years shutting herself away from the possibility of hurt but now, for the first time in a long time, she regretted what she'd become and, most of all, what it might do to the man who wanted to be her husband when he found out what she truly was.


	13. Chapter 13

Emma decided that the best thing was to give Mr Jones a wide berth. Well, as much as she could given the rather cramped circumstances of the cabin over breakfast, which was really not very much at all.

In fact when she sat down at the table, once again in response to Mr Jones' prompting, she thought for a moment that he might reach across and take her hand. Thankfully he saw fit to restrain himself or, perhaps, Emma's expression was sufficient to rebuff him. But if that was the case it did nothing to improve the way she felt about herself.

There was no way for her to win in this situation, and Emma felt bitter about that. It wasn't as though she'd expected to come out of this marriage the triumphant victor, but she certainly hadn't ever contemplated the notion that it would be because Mr Jones was foolish enough to actually believe she might be a suitable companion.

Emma had arrived in Storybrooke armed for a variety of eventualities; she had been faced with enough accusations of misdeeds or casual cruelty in her lifetime to know how to keep her head down and try to avoid attracting attention. But sometime during the game she'd started playing with Mr Jones she'd attracted a different sort of attention altogether.

And, somehow, it seemed even worse.

When they set off for the field Emma remained as silent as possible hoping that by avoiding conversation altogether she wouldn't be sucked into making any further rash promises. She wasn't certain, however, if Mr Jones was aware of her new reticence. Certainly he gave her a couple of curious glances, but he didn't speak to her. He did, however, walk a little closer to her than the day before.

Perhaps he felt that there was nothing left to say now that they reached their accord of the night before?

Emma found all this closeness, the understanding practically radiating from him, cloying. She chose a spot on the field as far away from Mr Jones as she could without, she hoped, raising suspicion and began work.

At least there could be no complaints about her work ethic, she reasoned, lifting the hoe back over her shoulder and bringing it down with a satisfying thump. If nothing else she could work out her frustration on the ground.

The morning passed, a lot quicker than Emma had expected it to. The work had helped her to remain occupied and, most importantly, far away from Mr Jones. It was only when he cleared his throat and suggested they break for lunch that she realised how much time had passed without them exchanging a word.

It didn't remain so for much longer. As soon as Emma took a, rather reluctant, seat on the ground near Mr Jones and passed him the leftover chicken she had brought with her, he thanked her with a smile, before commenting "I know that her sacrifice was great, but I still contend that we are remembering her in the best way we possibly could."

Emma wished there was a way she could avoid being drawn into this kind of conversation and simply eat her lunch in peace. Words were simply dangerous and she strongly suspected that even if the subject of discussion was ostensibly a dead chicken, Mr Jones would say something that would lead her to either disclose something she would rather not or, more likely, push her to agree to something that she would never do under other circumstances. Making him another promise that she would never be able to keep was the last thing she needed.

It had been fine when the sole object of her interactions with Mr Jones had been to see if he would look at her with such open admiration once again. Now he kept opening his mouth and spoiling it utterly.

She sighed and pulled some of the chicken meat away from a bone. "I suppose it was a worthwhile sacrifice on her part."

"And you would know," Mr Jones replied.

"What do you mean?"

He seemed a little taken aback by Emma's quick reply but she had been taken off-guard by his words and was, once again, surprised by the turn the conversation had taken.

"I mean that you had to sacrifice a great deal for Henry. As you said, yesterday. When you spoke of being a housekeeper and that it was not your preference."

"Oh." Emma didn't particularly like to think of her life as having contained any great sacrifice, not even where Henry was concerned. Sacrifice implied something far greater than she felt she had been able to give her son. Survival was really her basic concern most of the time.

"And I, of course, get to reap the benefits as well."

"You do?"

"Of course. I'm sorry she's gone but I'm still grateful for having chicken for lunch." Mr Jones finished with a smile in Emma's direction.

She nodded and ate some more of her own chicken but felt unsettled all the same. The subject had changed back and forth too quickly for her to really keep up but she felt sure down in her gut that he hadn't really been speaking about the chicken at the end. To ask, though, would have surely seemed conceited and may have thrown up more words Emma simply didn't want to hear.

They finished eating in silence; Emma refusing to make eye contact with Mr Jones again. She didn't want to give him an opportunity to begin another conversation that was outwardly about chickens and really about something else altogether.

Some things were better left unsaid.

Work continued throughout the morning with Mr Jones coming closer and closer to Emma as he cleared his own patch of ground. She assumed that was deliberate on his part, but had no real way to rebuff him. Declaring that this was her part of the field and he should find his own corner would surely seem petty and childish, no matter how tempting it was to resort to the kind of behaviours she'd learned while growing up in an orphanage.

Although if Mr Jones had any inkling about that part of her past, then he definitely wouldn't have armed her with a hoe.

Instead she was stuck with his presence, it serving only as a reminder of the accord he thought they'd reached and which Emma knew was doomed to fail as soon as he found out who she was; brawls in the dormitories of her youth being only part of the journey that brought her to his doorstep.

But there were other matters brought to the fore by his stubborn determination to position himself as close to Emma's working space as possible. At some point since lunch he'd seen fit to remove his shirt and was now only wearing an undershirt as he worked. As practical as that was for Mr Jones, given the heat currently blasting down from the sky, it did make him somewhat of a distraction for Emma.

And she wasn't in the mood to be distracted by him, at all.

She worked on as best she could trying to ignore the strong desire pulling her eyes towards Mr Jones. Some of the pull was sheer curiosity; Emma hadn't had a chance to scrutinise the apparatus that held Mr Jones' hook in place and the fact that it was now in plain sight was too good an opportunity to pass up. She wondered if the fact he was less inhibited now was mere practicality or a new-found ability to feel more comfortable in her presence. If it was the latter, it had the opposite effect on Emma because if he was prepared to be open with her then surely he would expect some kind of reciprocation?

Distracted by her thoughts on the subject, she almost missed Mr Jones waving the canteen of water at her until it was right under her nose. "Thank-you," she replied, as she took it from him and helped herself to a large sip, careful to keep her gaze on the horizon and not on the man hovering in the corners of her view.

Passing the canteen back to Mr Jones she expected that would be the end of their interlude, but he didn't immediately start working again. "You are…bearing up?" he asked her. "Despite the heat?"

"I am managing as well as I can. Under the circumstances."

"As are we all." Mr Jones chuckled, a little ruefully, and then held up his left arm. "I'm certain this used to be easier when I had two hands."

Emma didn't particularly want to discuss Mr Jones' lack of a left hand, not trusting her response to be entirely appropriate. She was certain that she felt sympathy for the man, but, at the same time, lacked a way to express it. Her own childhood had been sorely lacking in those who were sympathetic to her own plight. Mostly she didn't want him to turn melancholy. The easiest solution seemed to be to turn the tide of the conversation altogether.

"Well, we all have our crosses to bear. At least you are not stuck in a dress while attempting farm work. The world is not kind to women."

Mr Jones barely paused before retorting "Well the world may not be, but never let it be said that I am not. If the dress is hampering you, then why don't you remove it?"

Emma couldn't figure out if he was genuinely concerned for her comfort, or simply trying to persuade her to remove her clothing. Either way, it made little difference; she wasn't taking off her dress. It may be that the horse had already bolted from that particular stable the moment she allowed him to see her rise from a bath in the farmyard, but she didn't believe that taking off her dress under these circumstances was a wise decision.

She may have felt, on occasions, as though she failed at being the kind of woman she should aspire to be but she was still a woman, and, as such, she was just as stuck in that dress as Mr Jones was stuck with wearing the brace and hook he needed to replace his missing hand. Or, at least, it felt that way to Emma. Faced with uncertainty she took the easiest option, and stuck to the rules and regulations that she hoped would protect her from the harsher aspects of the world. "I don't think that would be at all wise, Mr Jones."

Without a ready reply to her this time, he returned to his own work, as did Emma until she noticed the afternoon was passing by. "I need to go," she informed him. "I promised Henry's teacher I would meet with her this afternoon."

If Emma had not already felt hot and dishevelled from her time in the field, then the walk back to the farm and then on to the school, with only the chance for a short stop in order to remove her apron and splash her face and hair with a little water, would have made her so. She hoped that Miss Blanchard would be forgiving of her appearance as much as she hoped that the meeting would be a brief one and not involve a long list of wrongdoings on Henry's part.

She found Henry sitting on the steps of the little schoolhouse, clearly stationed as a lookout. Without greeting Emma he disappeared inside and she heard him call "Mama's here now," which alerted her to the fact they'd obviously been waiting on her for some time.

There was nothing like arriving late and grubby, Emma thought ruefully, as she entered the schoolhouse.

"Oh, thank you so much for coming!" Miss Blanchard greeted Emma enthusiastically, standing up and stepping out from behind her desk as she did so.

"I, uh. Well, of course I would come, Miss Blanchard. I…am always interested in finding out how Henry is faring at school." Emma removed her bonnet and hoped that conveyed the message that she was a concerned parent and, while not about to blame Miss Blanchard for anything that may have happened, she was certainly here to support her son.

There were many things she'd missed out on as a child and she was not about to deprive her own son of having someone on his side.

"Henry?" Miss Blanchard seemed perplexed by Emma's comment and tilted her head to one side, her dark ringlets arranging themselves prettily on either side of her face.

Emma tried very hard to resist the urge to run a hand over her own hair and see how badly out of place it all was now.

"Well Henry is doing splendidly, as you know I'm sure," Miss Blanchard continued and Emma felt a little chastened for ever thinking that something might be amiss in the first place. Of course Henry would be fine; he was after all polite and well-mannered and not at all averse to studying when it was required of him.

The reason for that, said the nagging voice at the back of Emma's mind, was that it was Regina who brought him up, not Emma. Emma tried to ignore that voice and focus more on Miss Blanchard.

"But I just needed…" she continued, before looking thoughtful and turning from Emma to Henry, who looked as though he was trying very hard to keep a straight face, the pleasure of having been praised by Miss Blanchard threatening to burst out of him at any moment.

"Henry, would you like to go outside and wait for our guests?" Miss Blanchard asked, confusing Emma further. Henry was patently not confused and hustled outside immediately at the request.

"I confess, Miss Blanchard, I am now a little lost as to what exactly I am doing here." Emma tried to keep her tone as neutral as possible, but the teacher looked a little chastened all the same.

"Oh, I am sorry for the, uh, subterfuge. It's just there are things that Henry probably does not need to know, but I shall be frank with you now we're alone. I can be frank with you, can't I Mrs Jones?"

"Well, yes. Of course." Emma still found the sound of her new name jarring; if anything as time passed she felt less and less like Mrs Jones and more and more like an imposter. But curiosity concerning Miss Blanchard's desire for her presence over-rode that feeling and left her anxious to find out who these mysterious guests were.

"Good. Because I have had an approach from some individuals who requested my services as a teacher and I thought it would be…prudent, perhaps, to have someone else present while we met."

"And I am the most suitable candidate?" Emma was still mystified as to why she would be the best choice of companion for Miss Blanchard. "Surely if you were concerned about the people who wish to speak with you then you could have asked the sheriff to accompany you this afternoon?"

Miss Blanchard shook her head emphatically. "No. No, that wouldn't be the best idea. I don't really need a protector just someone who is…I think the best description would be, a little worldly. I am right in assuming that you have seen some of the world, am I not?"

"Yes," Emma said, quietly, not sure if she was being trapped into admitting something she wouldn't want others to know. She really wished she had more information about what on earth was happening because she felt decidedly on the back foot at the moment.

But Miss Blanchard's attention was drawn away by Henry appearing in the doorway. "Miss Blanchard…I think your guests are here."

"Thank you, Henry. You can just wait out there. Your mother and I won't be that long."

"Yes, Miss Blan…" Henry's words died on his lips as the guests he'd just announced swept into the schoolroom. Emma felt more than a little taken aback at their sudden entry as well, and, mostly, she wished she'd had time to clean herself up before she arrived.

The first woman Emma immediately recognised; the green silk dress and haphazardly piled blonde hair were unmistakeable in belonging to the girl who'd addressed Mr Jones so vehemently in the main street of Storybrooke. Her companions were similarly attired; one in a vibrant primrose hue, the other in a more muted rose pink.

Henry stared at the three women and the girl in pink, a slender thing with pale skin and russet hair turned to smile at him as she passed, leaving him open-mouthed and a little inattentive. Emma had to call his name twice before he turned in her direction and she could remind him to wait outside.

In the meantime the three women had approached Miss Blanchard and Emma and were looking around the schoolroom with obvious interest. Miss Blanchard was offering a welcoming smile that made Emma think she genuinely was glad to see these strange exotic birds who'd clearly left their natural habitat and somehow ended up here.

The whole situation was most perplexing.

"Thank you for agreeing to see us," the girl in green said, extending her hand to Miss Blanchard with a level gaze, almost as though she was daring her to shake it. Evidently the teacher was not easily rattled, as she took the proffered hand without hesitation.

"Of course. Won't you all sit?" Miss Blanchard gestured to the small desks in the classroom and, after some re-arranging of dresses, the three women managed to accommodate themselves somewhat comfortably. Emma also slid into a seat, to the side of the women who'd cast several curious glances in her direction since they'd arrived. She placed her hands in her lap, hoping that the blisters and ground-in dirt had gone unnoticed.

Miss Blanchard sat as well and Emma felt as though she had stumbled upon the world's strangest quilting circle. Thing became stranger still when introductions were attempted.

"And what are your names?" Miss Blanchard asked, and the girl in the green dress replied first.

"I'm the Tinker's Belle."

"But your name is?" Miss Blanchard pressed.

She shrugged and looked nonplussed. "It doesn't really matter. You can call me Tink if you want to." Turning to the girl with the yellow dress she said "And this is the French Belle."

The girl in pink spoke for herself. "I'm the Northern Belle."

"You're all…Belles?" Miss Blanchard sounded as perplexed as Emma felt herself.

"Oh yes," the Northern Belle said, nodding, before carrying on with a certain dramatic flourish. "Well, that's what Madam calls us, anyway. It's because when we're in the saloon, we're always the belle of the ball."

"I see." Miss Blanchard glanced in Emma's direction, perhaps seeking her judgement on the matter. Emma was determined to keep out of proceedings as much as possible and hoped her expression had remained unchanged. Whatever these women wanted to call themselves it was no concern of hers.

The Northern Belle had clearly caught the look passing between them and carried on. "But if you want, you could call me Aurora. I mean, that's pretty, don't you think?"

Tink gave a little snort at that. "I think it's ridiculous. You used to be plain old Rosie McBrier and you were happy enough with that. If you want a name, use that one."

Aurora pursed her lips and looked displeased. "If Madam can change my name, why can't I?"

Tink didn't seem to have an answer to that, she just huffed. Aurora looked perplexed at what the fuss was about and the French one looked a little bored.

Miss Blanchard, possibly used to this kind of situation in the classroom, stepped in to take control of the conversation. "Well, as you probably know, I'm Miss Blanchard and this is my friend Mrs…" she gestured to Emma just as she was cut off by the Tink girl.

"Yes. We know who she is." She turned to look at Emma with a frankly appraising glance, and then looked back at Miss Blanchard. "People always forget that this is a small town and that we are a big part of it."

"We do tend to know all the news," Aurora or whatever she was calling herself added, and Emma could only wonder what news they'd had of her and recall the way Tink had pointed at her from the street. She was feeling none too charitable towards Miss Blanchard for dragging her here this afternoon under, what she felt at that moment to be, false pretences.

There was nothing here that concerned her, and every opportunity to be made a fool of, or worse.

"Oh, well yes. Of course." Miss Blanchard gave them a small nod. "And now, you said you had need of my services?" she prompted, and Tink nodded.

"We are, indeed, looking to engage the services of a tutor."

"You have children?" Miss Blanchard inquired with a remarkably straight face, Emma thought. It did send a pin-prick of fear into her own mind, however, as being brought here to commune with obviously fallen women cut far too close to the bone.

"Oh, no!" Aurora laughed at that suggestion, but she was the only one of the three to do so. "No, we, uh…well, that is, we thought…" She glanced nervously at her companions and, for the first time since they had arrived, the girl in the yellow dress, the so-called French Belle, addressed the room.

"We would like to learn. To read."

There was silence for a few moments, and then Miss Blanchard said. "Of course. That's an…admirable ambition."

Tink nodded. "We thought it might be a useful skill. Even for the likes of us." The last part of that comment was directed to Emma. Or, at least, she thought it was. Perhaps she was imagining the girl's hostility towards her.

"And, well, we didn't want to end up like the Blue Belle," Aurora volunteered, but she received a warning look from the other two women and didn't add anything further about the missing Blue Belle, or her eventual fate. Emma could guess that it wasn't a happy one.

"Everyone should have the opportunity to learn," Miss Blanchard continued, as though she, too, believed that this missing Blue Belle might have been saved from disaster by the ability to read. "And you want to arrange some…private lessons?"

Aurora tittered a little at her words, but was soon pulled into line by a sharp look from the French Belle. In the meantime Tink responded to the question. "Well, yes. But we doubted you wanted to come to the saloon to do them."

"Ah…yes…" The teacher seemed deep in thought. "I suppose that…here would be suitable. As long as it is after school and that you can be spared from your, uh…duties."

The three women exchanged looks and seemed to find some kind of agreement. "Tuesdays," Tink stated. "Tuesday afternoons Madam has an appointment and we shall not be missed."

Miss Blanchard nodded. "We'll start on Tuesday then, unless…if there are any circumstances that do prevent you coming here, then send me a message and I'll know you were unable to make the appointment."

At that, Tink huffed a little and sat further back in her chair, her blonde curls threatening to unravel from their somewhat haphazard style. "I can assure you, we are not the prisoners you seem to think we are."

"I'm sorry," Miss Blanchard said, quickly. "I did not mean to offend, only to let you know that I…understood, I suppose, that you may have certain circumstances where there is a prior claim on your time."

"We are not as enslaved as you might imagine. Certainly our lives are better than some others." With that comment Tink threw a brazen look in Emma's direction, unmistakeably challenging her to put forward a case that her own life was better.

"You do not fear the consequences of your, uh, chosen occupation?" Miss Blanchard asked, in a voice that, to Emma's mind, belied more curiosity than condemnation.

"Consequences?" Aurora asked, as though the thought had never really crossed her mind.

"She means the crosses any woman must bear," the French Belle stated, looking straight at Miss Blanchard rather than either of her companions. "Child-bearing, disease, beatings…our lot is not so different from any other woman who has contact with a man. And yet we manage to profit from it, while for most women the opposite rings true. More to the point, I do not exist simply to smooth the existence of the man I have shackled myself to. When I am not performing my  _duties_ , as you like to so politely put it, I am free to be my own person. I cook no one's breakfast, I wash no one's shirts. Tell me, who is the better off between the women like us, and those who choose to marry?"

With that the French Belle looked in Emma's direction for the first time and there was something there, less outwardly hostile than the way Tink had glanced at Emma earlier, but it was as though she knew something that Emma would find deeply disturbing and she wanted Emma, very much, to feel afraid.

And there was, of course, only one person about whom she could know such details and the knot of worry in Emma's belly pulled tighter.

"We have our own laundress," Aurora added unnecessarily, in what was, perhaps, her own way of coping with the increasing tension in the room. "She's Chinese. A lovely person, though."

"I'm sure," Miss Blanchard agreed, although her eyes were on Emma too now, and she looked a little concerned. Turning back to the three women she took a deep breath and rearranged her smile back into place. "I think then, if that is all that I can do for you, then I will see you all next Tuesday afternoon?"

There were general murmurs of agreement from the three women and they rose as a group, each taking Miss Blanchard's hand in turn as she wished them goodbye. "You have lovely skin," Aurora exclaimed, as she took the teacher's hand. "It's so white. You know, if you were one of us, you'd be the Snow Belle. Isn't that pretty?"

She looked around the room for agreement, seeming not to see the potential for making Miss Blanchard uncomfortable with her words. But, to her credit, Miss Blanchard played along. "I think that is very pretty," she assured Aurora. "And Mrs Jones?"

It took a moment for Aurora to figure out what she was asking, and then another moment of acute embarrassment before Tink finally said in a firm voice "Madam doesn't take married woman."

Emma didn't think her marital status would be as much of an impediment as her ability to scare away any potential customers with her countenance. But she was hardly likely to argue the case for her admission to their fold, not when, unlike Miss Blanchard, her life had led her far too close to that path already.

And not when it was possibly true that they were two sides of the same coin anyway. Had she simply just sold herself to one man rather than many? It wasn't exactly a new notion to Emma, but, she had to admit, it was one she thought she had reconciled herself to in the last few days as she had reached some kind of accord with Mr Jones. Now she was facing the reality that, at least in the eyes of others, and definitely in the eyes of others who should be in no position to judge, her life was hardly a fairy-tale.

Emma had assumed that they would bypass her with their goodbyes but, led by the girl Tink, the three trooped past her one by one like reluctant Sunday school pupils called on to recite to the group and nodded to her formally. Only Aurora shook her hand, oblivious, or perhaps uncaring, of her companions' failure to do so.

The last of the three was the French Belle. "I am so glad to have met you," she said, her pale blue eyes and white skin an eerie contrast to the deep richness of the chestnut hair that tumbled over her shoulder. "I should think we will meet again." And with that she turned and followed the other girls out, the rustle of their skirts fading away as they disappeared out the small door of the schoolhouse.

Emma was more than tempted to follow them, gathering up Henry on the way. She was in no mood for further discussions and she suspected that Miss Blanchard would now want to examine, at length, all the ways in which Emma's marriage fitted the rather pitiful picture that the French Belle had painted of what married life was like.

Instead Miss Blanchard gave her a rather embarrassed smile. "I am sorry that I brought you here under somewhat false pretences. I really did think that they wanted me to tutor some children and therefore thought they might be more comfortable with another mother present…someone who could, I hope, vouch for me."

Emma wanted to ask if motherhood was the only thing Miss Blanchard thought she may have in common with these women, but was far too afraid of her own secrets being uncovered to do so. She gave Miss Blanchard a tight smile instead, feeling as though her face was cracking as she did so. "It was fine. I understand that you wanted to have someone else present."

Miss Blanchard smiled at Emma, although the effect was a little like a teacher who appreciated their pupil's effort even if they hadn't reached the right answer yet. "I hardly think they are dangerous."

"Not even dangerous to your reputation?"

Miss Blanchard shook her head. "I'm not as concerned with that as you might assume. After all, young ladies who want to remain doing the  _proper_  thing, hardly jump on a train and take off for Kansas."

"And what were you hoping to find here in Kansas?" Emma inquired, curious to say the least about why someone would travel so far from home unbidden.

"I was hoping that I may do some good. And, hence, I am more than happy to teach these women to read because no one said that I could only help children."

"I fear it may not be as easy as you think it will be, and, moreover, I fear that they do not want to be saved in the way you think they do." Emma was quite certain that they had made their feelings on the matter of their lifestyle quite clear.

"Oh, I have no intention of saving them," Miss Blanchard said, dismissively. "But don't you think everyone should have hope that there's something better?"

"I suppose so," Emma agreed, although it wasn't something she had personally dwelt on very often in her life, finding it hard enough sometimes to carry on with the mere drudgery of living. Hope seemed a little far to push herself.

"Of course you do. Or you wouldn't be here yourself."

Miss Blanchard was correct. She had come to Kansas in a sudden surfeit of hope for something better for Henry, but she had still to come to her own conclusion on whether that hope had been misplaced or not. There was nothing for her to do but nod in agreement.

"Hope brought us all out here," Miss Blanchard said, with a small shrug.

"And what is it you hope for?" Emma asked, and Miss Blanchard looked surprised, as though the answer was obvious.

"My happy ending of course. The same as all of us do, we just perhaps picture it differently. For some it's learning to read and not becoming like the Blue Belle…whoever she is." Miss Blanchard looked sideways at Emma. "For others it's love."

Although it was far from ladylike, Emma couldn't help but make a noise akin to a snort at that. "I have long since given up on the luxury of that. I will take security any day; the value of knowing what will happen at any given time is not to be underestimated."

Miss Blanchard gave her a long, appraising look. "I think that is a very sad way to live. If you don't open yourself up to the possibility of someone loving you, then no one ever will."

"And this is what you would counsel your new pupils? That they should look for love from the men who frequent the saloon?"

Miss Blanchard sighed, and made a show of straightening up a pile of books on her desk which were already, as far as Emma could tell, as neatly aligned as possible. "I find it hard to judge them for I know that there is not much that separates any of our sex, and, were a few of my circumstances different, I would, indeed, be the Snow Belle."

"That is as it may be, but it does not really answer my question. Any woman could fall so far, and, while I find their desire to seek a freer life admirable, I do not in my heart believe them so," Emma replied, her words a quick tumble. "Not when they answer so closely to their madam. Not when they are there for the express purpose of sating the desires of menfolk. I cannot see how love would trump security in their minds, and I do not believe that they would disagree with me. In this matter anyway."

Emma took in a deep and, hopefully, calming breath while Miss Blanchard fixed her with a small, sad, smile. "Well, I suppose that is where we differ, then. For I do not think that craving security means discounting the possibility of love. Nor do I believe that hope is wasted on the women we met today. For what is a life without hope of something better?"

"A very empty existence," Emma admitted, feeling as though the words were ripped from her very soul.

"Exactly. And while they may have somewhat…pragmatic views, shall we say, about married life, I do not believe that they are completely immune from the desire for companionship."

Emma doubted that very much, but she held her tongue lest the conversation descend into something unpleasant. She had been rattled by the way the girls from the saloon had looked at her, by the comments they had made and, most of all, by the way the two combined had made her feel exposed as though they knew exactly who she was at heart. A small, scared girl who was hoping, not for love, but that this time she would be enough.

"Of course," Miss Blanchard continued. "You would be the more qualified to discuss matters of the heart, or of marriage."

Emma felt nothing of the sort, and hoped that Miss Blanchard would move on to other topics, or, even better, signify that she was dismissed. But she pressed on, regardless. "And you are…I mean. Your marriage is acceptable?"

Emma did not want to walk the tightrope of trying to answer any of Miss Blanchard's questions about Mr Jones or her marriage again, so she applied the best smile she could under the circumstances and said as little as possible. "Time works wonders with so many things. And hard work is good for the soul." Emma held her hands up, palms outward, so Miss Blanchard could inspect the bloody mass of blisters she had developed over the past two days.

"Oh. Oh, that is…" Miss Blanchard seemed short of a description so Emma stepped in to help her.

"The result of working in a field."

"I see." Miss Blanchard's eyes moved from Emma's hands to her face, and back again. "You have, indeed, been working hard it seems."

"Well, I did come here to live on a farm and while perhaps field work was not exactly what I was hoping for when I arrived, it has not been entirely unexpected nor unwelcome."

"You are enjoying it." Emma was uncertain if Miss Blanchard had meant that to be a question, because it certainly sounded more like a statement of fact. Still, Emma answered her anyway.

"Yes."

"That's good. Certainly, to my mind you do seem more settled..." If there was to be more of an assessment of Emma's situation given by Miss Blanchard, Emma never had the opportunity to hear it as Henry chose that moment to re-enter the schoolhouse.

"Oh," he said, as he realised that he now had the sole focus of the two women. "I just wondered if I should come back in now, Mama? Miss Blanchard?"

He looked from one to the other, clearly a little unsure as to who was the ultimate authority in the current setting. Emma nodded, and then walked a few steps toward Henry, and the door. "I think it is time we headed home."

Miss Blanchard walked around her desk and joined them. "Thank you for your assistance today," she said, smiling warmly, and taking Emma's hand gently in her own. "I do understand that it wasn't the most comfortable meeting you'd ever had, but I think that, on reflection, our guests will understand that there is more than one person who supports them in their endeavours. Won't they?"

Emma sighed and looked down. "While we may not see eye to eye on all subjects I can assure you that I do agree that everyone should have the same right to learning. So, no. I will not do anything to jeopardise their burgeoning relationship with yourself."

"I wouldn't take everything they said to heart," Miss Blanchard advised, but Emma shook her head.

"I do not blame them. And much of what they said is, after all, not far from the truth, if filtered through a rather pessimistic lens. I have entered into an arrangement in which I am now obliged to tie my fortune to another's. Only time will tell if that decision was a wise one."

"As long as you don't lose hope altogether, I'm sure it will," Miss Blanchard replied, somewhat frustratingly.

"Goodbye, Miss Blanchard." Emma withdrew her hands from the teacher's.

"Please, I would like you to call me Mary Margaret. I think we are passed the formalities now."

"Of course," Emma agreed.

"Goodbye, Emma. You take care of yourself in that field." Mary Margaret moved to Henry. "Goodbye, Henry. Thank you for passing on the message like I asked, and for waiting so long for your mother. I'll see you tomorrow."

Henry nodded, and then, after Emma nudged him slightly, remembered to mind his manners and actually say goodbye.

By the time they were outside and walking home, he found his tongue. "Did you know those women, Mama? Did they want to be your friend, too?"

"They merely…required some assistance from Miss Blanchard."

"Then why were you there, Mama?"

"Moral support, I believe," Emma answered, her thoughts distracted.

"What was wrong with their morals?"

"Uh…no. No, it means…well, more supporting a person." Emma could see from the frown gracing Henry's face that her answer hadn't really helped him. "Being a friend," she finished in the end.

"Well, that's what I said, Mama," Henry reminded her. "Are you going to tell Mr Jones you have new friends?"

That was something Emma hadn't even thought about and the very idea seemed preposterous to her. There were too many reasons as to why it wouldn't be a sensible choice and she had no intention of listing them all to Henry. Instead she kept her reply brief. "No."

Henry nodded, sagely. "I think he might be…well, he probably might want to just have you as just his friend for a while. Don't you think, Mama?"

"Perhaps," Emma replied, while trying very hard not think about how closely the women from the saloon might have been acquainted with Mr Jones prior to her arrival and just how friendly they had been.

It wasn't like she was naïve about such things but, as they had pointed out, it was a very small town.

But she had to let those thoughts go, for, really, they would do her no good. And besides, Henry had thought he had seen a rabbit and was determined to chase it down so watching him, and reminding him not to run out of sight, seemed a more fruitful occupation at that moment.

And, luckily, Mr Jones did not seem at all overly concerned with the details of her meeting with Miss Blanchard when she returned back to the farm, taking her assertion that all was well and the teacher had merely wanted to discuss the lessons she would be setting for Henry, as all that had occurred. And Henry, if he remembered the women who'd been there, didn't feel inclined to mention it as the story about the rabbit was far more interesting.

"If I'd had the gun then I could have shot it, and we could have eaten it. But I didn't," Henry lamented, after he'd finished his tale.

"Well, hopefully chicken soup will suffice," Emma proposed, but it didn't placate Henry much.

"It's not really the same if I didn't shoot anything. I didn't even get to  _throw_  anything at the fox. I wish you had woken me up, Mama."

Henry's grumbles seemed to have come full circle and Emma watched as Mr Jones raised his eyebrow at her, inviting her, she assumed, to join him in commiserating with Henry's misfortune.

Mr Jones seemed to have other things on his mind, however. "Well, Henry. Perhaps if your mother is disposed to accompany us, you could both have some more practice at actually shooting things, rather than throwing your footwear?"

Henry seemed enthusiastic about the prospect and Emma didn't have it in her to refuse, not when she was so certain that whatever hopes Mr Jones had about her and their marriage were bound to be dashed as soon as he started viewing her in the same cold light that the women from the saloon had.

She couldn't hide from him forever, out here in all this nothingness, in a small town where everyone figured out everyone's business pretty smartly. Where even the people no one spoke of had already picked over the bare bones of her marriage and her character and found both sorely lacking.

It was a struggle to concentrate on Henry's shooting, and she had lie a couple of times when he asked her if she'd seen what he'd done. She paused from her other thoughts to wonder, idly, if Regina had been so adept at lying to him or if this was a tactic only she adopted with Henry because, after all, she lied to everyone.

Just not herself. At least, she hoped she didn't.

When Mr Jones beckoned to Emma to switch places with her son, sending him off to feed the chickens, she did so warily, as though merely being near the man might somehow alert him to the doubts she was having. But if Mr Jones did suspect anything then he was remarkable in his ability to hide it. Or perhaps he was as distracted by the closeness of their bodies as Emma herself was.

It was almost disappointing when Mr Jones judged her proficient enough that he could risk stepping away. Emma discovered that the agitation she felt when his arms were around her was infinitely preferable to the disquiet she experienced when there were no such distractions available.

Tempting as it was to invent a sudden regression in her ability with the gun, Emma wouldn't do that to herself, or to Mr Jones.

"I shouldn't keep you any longer," she announced, pointing the shotgun at the ground, and holding it out towards Mr Jones.

"Oh." He took the gun from her hand a little reluctantly. "To tell the truth I had been enjoying your company."

"You had?"

"Yes. The field was not the same without you this afternoon. I found myself feeling…a little bereft." Mr Jones looked at Emma hopefully, as though he was offering her some great treasure.

But Emma was well aware she had nothing to offer him in return. And, having suffered through the afternoon's charade of being paraded as an upstanding wife and mother when it was patently clear to all present that she was neither, Emma felt that she no longer wanted to be participate in any more pretence.

"That is clearly not true, Mr Jones. I was hardly the most pleasant company before I left."

He frowned, clearly not expecting her to call his bluff. Emma was tempted to turn on her heel and leave, but a pang of regret for dealing this blow to Mr Jones made her stay rooted to the spot.

"Well, I suppose I have had worse companions," he replied, with a small chuckle.

And really, that was the moment when Emma reached the end of her tether. Her afternoon had been tension-filled and unpleasant and she was, quite frankly, sick to death of treading on eggshells around Mr Jones. If he was going to find out exactly what she was then it was better that he do so now before someone else, someone more perceptive or less blinded than Mr Jones, let him know.

"I believe that I may have given you the wrong impression," she said, hurriedly, not meeting Mr Jones' gaze.

"I can assure you…" he began, but Emma stopped him short.

"No. I need to finish. Despite everything that has happened, despite the way in which this all occurred I am not a…a…replacement for your brother. I am not some kind of prize that you received by default because he is no longer here to claim me first. I am not  _anything_  that you think I am. And when you ask me if the things I did to get here were worth it I cannot give you an answer because I do not know. I don't know how any of this will work out, and neither do you. So please, do us both a favour and stop pretending that this situation is more than it actually is."

With that she did turn and leave, unwilling to spend time surveying the damage she'd wrought on Mr Jones. He would be alright, she told herself. It had to happen sooner or later, after all. Hope was one thing, but she refused to allow Mr Jones to remain utterly blinded.

Still, there was an ache inside of her as she boiled the remains of the chicken carcass for soup which refused to go away no matter how much she reminded herself of these facts.

And supper, when it was served, did little to dispel any of the turmoil Emma felt. She had stated her feelings on the matter in the hope it would be somehow cathartic, and, perhaps, it had been. But only momentarily and now she simply felt worse than before.

Really, it would be better if he reacted in some way other than concerned glances across the table, leaving Emma with the resulting urge to kick him in the shins to make him stop.

As supper finished, Emma stood up first and began clearing away dishes and absolutely refused to turn back around even though she knew Mr Jones was hovering behind her, no doubt watching her again. If she just pretended he wasn't there, that she didn't know he wanted to say something to her, the he would leave and the night would be over.

And the voice in her head that reminded her that it was her desire to remove all pretence which caused the problem in the first place, merely sent her spiralling into another black whirlpool of regret and shame.

Eventually Mr Jones did leave the cabin as, when Emma turned to hand Henry the dishes to carry out to wash, he was no longer there. Clearly, he now had the message that she was not about to entertain further entreaties from him.

Henry was reluctant to go to sleep and delayed as long as he possibly could, citing multiple reasons for remaining out of his bed. A trip to the outhouse took far longer than Emma felt it should, and she wondered if he had, in fact, gone in search of Mr Jones. Eventually he returned to the cabin and climbed into the narrow bed by the wall.

"Are you going to go to bed now, Mama?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"I may sew for a while." Emma pulled the bedclothes a little higher up, although Henry immediately shuffled and they fell back down again. Sighing, she resisted the urge to straighten them.

"Maybe you should go to bed now? In case the fox returns?"

"I'm not going to wake you up if it does. You need your rest so you're ready for school tomorrow."

Henry yawned blatantly this time. "Yes but we could bend the rules just a bit, couldn't we? If there is a fox, I mean. I'd like to see it."

Even Henry had a sense of how inflexible Emma was. "Fine. I might do it. If it comes back, which isn't certain at all."

Henry seemed satisfied by that answer and gave up arguing. He said his prayers and Emma watched as he fell into a seemingly deep sleep almost as soon as his eyelids fluttered shut.

She envied him that ability.

Despite telling Henry that she might sew, Emma had no desire to find herself a useful occupation but instead sat at the table gazing into the lamp as though it was some kind of fortune-telling device.

She was beyond the point of thinking and well on the way to nothing more than mindless contemplation of the beauty of the flickering light when she heard footsteps approaching the cabin. Shaken from her reverie Emma stood, uncertain of what this sudden visit signified. Was he coming to seek the answers she refused earlier, or claim something else entirely?

Both prospects filled her with a sense of dread and she wished that she had taken Henry's advice and gone to bed earlier in the evening.

Mr Jones did, at least, have the decency to knock rather than simply enter the cabin, but Emma found herself unable to move from her place and open the door for him, instead calling out a quiet "Yes?"

There was a pause, and then the door pushed open and Mr Jones' face was suddenly visible. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?" he asked, quietly, glancing over at where Henry slept, but not actually stepping inside.

"No. I…no." Emma shook her head emphatically.

Nothing happened for another moment, and then Mr Jones finally stepped inside and pushed the door closed. Emma waited, wondering why he'd come. It was impossible not to notice how terribly awkward she felt in his presence, a stark contrast to the way she'd come to feel the night before. And the worst part was that Emma knew it was all her own doing, and she had no idea how to stop.

"I just, uh." Mr Jones held out some kind of bundle towards Emma but she was uncertain of whether she should take it from him. Seeing her hesitation he placed it on the table between them and looked at it, nervously. "I know you said you weren't Liam, and you are quite correct in that. But I thought…well those were his clothes. Perhaps they'll be of use to you, in place of the dress you so despise."

Emma was utterly flummoxed by this turn of events, the afternoon's meeting at school having all but erased her memories of the morning spent in the field. After a moment or two she remembered the discussion about her dress and Mr Jones' exhortation that she should remove it.

"Oh. I…" Emma attempted to get her tongue under some kind of control. "Thank you."

"I appreciate it. The help…the, uh. I just thought…that I had said I wouldn't constrain you and so, perhaps, this might suit you. When you worked. I wouldn't…I wanted to do what I could to make it more…bearable."

Emma risked glancing over at Mr Jones only to discover that he wasn't looking in her direction, but at the wall while he fidgeted a little.

And then all of a sudden, something occurred to her. "You are concerned that you might fail me somehow?"

That drew Mr Jones' eyes back to hers and Emma was surprised by just how uncertain he looked. "Well, it has occurred to me that, perhaps, things have not worked out as you had expected them to." He lifted his left arm slightly, sighed, and went back to looking at the floor.

Emma's thoughts raced around and the tongue she had sought to control now voiced them, seemingly without fear of consequences. "But…I have no claim on you." She was genuinely perplexed by the situation at hand, having spent so much of the day worried that Mr Jones would soon regret his rather grandiose promises to her, that he would discover she was nothing he wanted and that the saloon women presented a more authentic version of themselves than she could ever hope to.

But Mr Jones' thoughts clearly differed from Emma's, as he appeared confused by her statement. "Claim?"

She was a little at a loss how to explain herself, without alerting him to how truly powerless he could render her. That girl, the French Belle, had been accurate in her assessment of marriage, Emma reflected. She had shackled herself to Mr Jones and now he was seeking her approval, or something like it, and she could not fathom why on earth he would bother when their fates were all but sealed.

"I mean…I did not expect…I cannot expect. I won't hold you to those promises you made last night. I said you had my good faith, and I mean it, even if I have not behaved in a fitting manner. But I came here for practical reasons and I am not about to press for more than my due."

"I see," Mr Jones said, and she wondered if he truly did because, as far as Emma could tell, Mr Jones appeared to operate under the illusion that this marriage was something far more romantic than it really was. "I am afraid," he continued in a low voice. "That your desire to make no claim on me does prevent my, uh…well, as I said. I wanted you to be my wife. I didn't believe that necessitated you simply being part of the furniture."

"I don't know if I can be what you want," Emma blurted out, and she marvelled at herself for doing so.

"I thought I made it clear that I wanted you." Mr Jones stepped closer, although the table was still between them.

"You don't know me. You don't…" Emma took a deep breath.

"I thought, perhaps, that you might let me. Get to know you." Emma didn't respond to that. "In your own time of course."

"And in return?"

"I suppose, you would get to know me."

Emma contemplated that. There were parts of herself, parts of her life that she wasn't prepared to lay bare. Not for anyone. But she couldn't continue to live like this, to be constantly afraid of discovery, to doubt her own mind at every move.

"Maybe you would allow me to call you Emma?" Mr Jones proposed.

"That is…perfectly acceptable." It was a small thing after all, and if it made Mr Jones feel as though he had some progress, then she would acquiesce.

"And you wish to reciprocate?"

"I…yes."

Silence fell between them, and Emma wondered if she should say something else, use his name, do anything that might break the tension. And then Mr Jones laughed, suddenly.

"In truth, I thought this would be easier," he said, stepping around the table towards her. "I thought that, if I came here, if I told you that you didn't need to worry, that you wouldn't. I suppose I forgot."

"Forgot, what?" Emma asked, watching him warily as he approached.

"That you have a mind of your own. And you're not easily comforted by my fine words."

"I have…some experience with words," Emma confessed. "And I have found they are often easier to say than to live up to."

"I hope I will be judged on my own merits, and not by the actions of others."

Emma nodded, and her eyes caught the bundle on the table. "Well, certainly no one else has ever suggested I wear their dead brothers clothing. You are unique in that regard, Killian."

His face lit up at her use of his name and she felt, for a moment, a little less uncertain about the future.

"Goodnight, Emma. I shall look forward to seeing if they suit you."

Emma returned the smile. "Thank you. For thinking of me…and for…" She paused, frowning and trying to piece together what it was she wanted to say.

"My fine words?" Killian prompted, one eyebrow raised.

"For attempting to keep them. I most certainly do not feel constrained."

"Then that's something." He nodded to himself, and then turned and walked towards the door before Emma could gather her wits enough to realise that she wanted to kiss him goodnight, as she had done the night before.

But the door shut behind him, and the lamplight flickered against it as she listened to his footsteps walking away, feeling that perhaps the fluttering she felt in her chest now wasn't as ominous as it had been. Perhaps it was almost hopeful.


	14. Chapter 14

Killian found it harder and harder to simply walk away from Emma and return to the little sod hut he called home. It wasn't only that he wished to share her bed, although there was no denying the fact he found her infinitely desirable. But he knew enough about her to realise that the time for pressing his claim to the marital bed was long past if, indeed, there had ever been an appropriate time to do so. A fearful, cowed Emma Swan held very little appeal for him.

But an Emma Swan who allowed him the simple pleasure of conversing with her, as prickly as some of her statements might be, an Emma Swan who occasionally smiled in his direction and who tirelessly helped him out around the farm, prepared to throw herself wholeheartedly into each new activity and refusing to be daunted. That was the Emma Swan he wanted to stay beside, and, perhaps even to call his.

She was her own person, however, and she'd made that abundantly clear. And while he might find her all the more fascinating for her determination to remain as steadfastly aloof as possible no matter what small courtesies he threw her way, it did make things considerably more difficult for him.

It had been a long time since he had attempted to win a woman's affections, and, as far as he could remember, he had never encountered such difficulties in doing so.

The charm that made him a pleasing companion had come naturally, and early, and often proved useful in those years when he and Liam had barely scraped by. It was surprising what he could gain from the briefest flirtation with women who were clearly ready to be flattered by the fine words which Emma had heartily rejected.

And even though an association with the likes of himself had the potential to cost Milah more than she was, perhaps, willing to pay, she had still been more than happy to seek out his company. Despite the precarious planning that went into their liaisons, persuading her to see him again had never been a hard task.

But dwelling on Milah was not going to help him assure Emma that she was safe in his care, especially when he had difficulty assuring himself of that fact. His biggest fear was not that she would never trust him, but that he would break the trust she might eventually grace him with. And every day she stayed with him the risk of that grew a little greater. There was only so long, after all, that he could keep the truth of things hidden from her.

He didn't want to let his thoughts travel down the dark path of worrying what might happen when Emma finally found out just how precarious their position was. Not when she was Emma now. The use of her name might be a small thing, but it felt like a hard-won victory and a sign that perhaps she was softening towards him. And while he had no expectations that she would suddenly change into the companion he desired and unburden herself of all the secrets he knew full well she still kept, it still felt like progress and it would pain him to think that it might be snatched away from him, that anything he hoped for was fruitless, that at the end he would be as alone as he had been before the arrival of Emma and Henry.

No, it was far better to keep away from that line of thinking and the pull of the drink that called to him from its place next to the basin in the dark sod hut that was as much a home as any he'd had for years. Better to allow himself the hope that one day, perhaps, he might reside in the cabin along with the boy he was growing increasingly fond of and the woman he found utterly captivating.

As pleasant as the images he chose to dwell on were, they still did not allow Killian to easily fall asleep. He lay on the small, cold bed and let the image of Emma in her nightgown play out in his mind until there is really no answer but to use his only good hand and try to satisfy his own lust in a way that was less than satisfying and simply exacerbated the thoughts he couldn't stop from invading the back of his mind; that all his hoping will only make the pain greater when in the end all he is left with naught.

He lay in the dark, and despite the deep and insistent pull of sleep, listened for something, anything that would tell him he was on the right path, that his fears were unfounded, and he would win Emma.

But there was only the sounds of the insects and the rustle of the wind, and then nothing at all.

The morning came quickly and Killian woke, startled to find that he had slept at all. Moreover he was awake long before the other inhabitants of the farm. He'd become so used to Henry's insistence that they see to the cows being the thing that pulled him from his bed in the morning that he found he quite missed the boy's chatter.

It was quiet still, not even the rooster had quite yet realised the sun was about to make its presence known. Killian was struck with the irrational notion that something awful had happened during the night and that he'd let it happen through simple neglect.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed Killian looked down at the stump of his left arm and it seemed an all too appropriate reminder of all his failings. If something had happened…if something did happen, then the blame for it could no doubt be laid at his door.

Losing his hand had, perhaps, not been the true start of his misfortunes, but it certainly felt like it at times. The moment he'd been maimed, the moment Milah had died, had been the moment he'd realised the truth, that no one cares what fine words you're saying when all they can see is the destruction you've caused written all over your own body.

Killian dressed as quickly as he was able, but, as he did so, the sound of people stirring in the cabin across the yard let him know that Henry and Emma had not been spirited away in the night. From what Killian could hear there was some discussion taking place over whether Henry would be able to fetch kindling before he came to milk the cows.

Feeling unreasonably anxious to see Emma again, a feeling he didn't particularly want to examine too closely, Killian set out for the cabin, only to see Henry walk around the side of it towards him.

"'Morning, Mr Jones," he called out, but didn't bother waiting for a reply before beginning on his first complaints of the morning. "Mama says I have to get her some kindling because she forgot last night and now I can't come and help with the cows until I've done it or there'll be no breakfast. Mama says it's bad enough that the stove never wants to co-operate on anything, she didn't need to start the day behind where she should be."

Having imparted the trials he was facing, Henry looked at Killian, no doubt expecting some amount of sympathy. "Well, it's a good thing to help your mother out, Henry," was all he could come up with.

"But if I do that, then I can't help you. There's just one of me, you know." Henry sighed loudly.

"I…yes, I was aware of that." It was hard not to smile at Henry's indignation at being pulled in more than one direction. At least, until he realised that Henry was looking at him expectantly in a way that suggested his comment about being only one boy was not merely a complaint he felt better for expressing to another person, but an actual problem he expected Killian, as the adult in the situation, to fix.

"Shall I take the kindling in to your mother while you go to the cows?"

"That's probably best, but, uh…Mr Jones? Mama, um…she did say to hurry." With that Henry ran off in the direction of the barn, where Killian could hear the white cow begin lowing in response to the boy's arrival.

Luckily there were some small sticks of kindling beside the larger woodpile, and Killian scooped them up one-handed, laying them in the crook of his left arm. When he reached the cabin however, he wasn't sure whether to knock as he had the previous night, or to take advantage of the fact that completing Henry's chore gave him a perfectly reasonable excuse for just walking straight in.

And so he did, pushing the door with his free hand and stepping in to what seemed to be an empty cabin. His solitude didn't last for more than a few seconds, however, as Emma stepped around the door of the bedroom, head bowed as she wrestled with the hair that draped down her back. "Can you put it in the stove, please Henry? I need to get that started otherwise…"

Emma's words died away as she looked up and saw that the person she was addressing was not, in fact, Henry. "Oh…good morning, Mr Jones." Her hands stilled and the hair she had been grasping fell over her shoulder in a way that Killian found quite entrancing, although he soon realised that merely admiring her in this way left them standing dumbly on either sides of the table.

"Where is Henry?" Emma asked, eventually breaking the silence that had fallen.

"He decided that the cows were greatly in need of his attention, and, to be frank, I think the white one does prefer him over me. But, uh…it's still Killian."

"I…I'm sorry?"

Killian stood there awkwardly, balancing the kindling on his arm and now feeling like he perhaps shouldn't have taken the task from Henry. But he was, if he was being honest, glad of the excuse to see Emma again after his rather fearful thoughts in the night. She was at least still here and that was something to be thankful for, even if the expression she was currently sporting was rather fearsome.

"Last night, we agreed," he continued. "To be on a first name basis from now on." He wondered if perhaps he'd imagined their strange little conversation in the cabin, that maybe it had just been his mind playing more tricks on him. Conjuring up images of an alluring Emma in the golden light of the lamp just to torment him with what he couldn't have.

Emma frowned, and her eyes looked downward, before she slowly lifted them again. "Yes, I suppose we did." She gave him a rather nervous-looking smile. "In truth I had forgotten; everything seems a little muddled up this morning."

"Well. At least you have your kindling now."

"Yes I do. You can, uh…just bring it over to the stove." Emma gestured towards her foe and Killian complied, stepping around the table and further into the cabin where he crouched down and began unloading some of the kindling into the stove.

Emma joined him in his task and Killian couldn't help but enjoy the opportunity it afforded to be close to her, their bodies crowded together in the small space. But his enjoyment of the moment clearly led to complacency and, as he bent towards her to begin stacking the excess kindling beside the stove, his hook became entangled in the still loose strands of Emma's hair.

While he may have relished being so physically close to her, this was a complication he could have done without, simply serving to remind the both of them of his defect and the potential for harm it held. Killian remained as still as he could while Emma disentangled herself, her fingers working quickly and the silence in the cabin almost deafening.

"I'm sorry," he offered, feeling it was a slightly inadequate response, but at the same time aware that this was hardly his fault. In truth there wasn't a good response to this situation; he was stuck with the hook and there was nothing that would change the situation now.

"No, I should have put it up sooner," Emma replied, standing up and gathering her hair in the same fluid motion before reaching into her apron pocket for something to keep it in place.

Killian rocked back on his heels and watched the rather her. It may have been a simple task, one that Emma performed every morning, but viewing it was a luxury he had not been afforded previously. He was going to take the opportunity to do so now that it had been presented to him, especially as the movement of her arms highlighted the gentle curve of her neck and the swell of her bosom and the whole picture was utterly mesmerising.

Emma caught his eye and he expected that she would be somewhat annoyed by his open admiration, but instead she looked almost ashamed and her hands dropped to her sides immediately, where they hung limply. For a brief moment Killian wondered what on earth could have provoked such a guilty reaction, but then he followed Emma's eyes as they fell on his hook and realised that she had completely misinterpreted his reason for staring at her. Emma suspected him of envy and that the use of his own two hands were the thing he most desired. It was absolutely not the case, although he would be lying if he said he didn't wish for the use of his left hand when it came to touching Emma.

But an opportunity to touch Emma was never going to arise while he was unable to even be in the cabin with her without an uncomfortable silence falling between them. Killian stood, and, awkwardly attempted to fill the empty space between them. "In truth I don't mind…that you are blessed with two hands while I am not. It would be a shame if someone as lovely as you are was marred in that way. And I'm sorry if I have caused offence, but it is difficult not to admire you from time to time."

Emma looked away at the floor and then back up at him, her gaze direct and almost challenging. "I do mean it," Killian continued. "My words are hardly empty flattery. You are quite the sight."

"I know you mean it," Emma said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. If Killian hoped however, that her admission would grant him some favour, he was to be sorely disappointed. "I'm afraid that now the fire is laid it must be lit, or I will be able to say truly and sincerely that breakfast will not be forthcoming."

"Then I will leave you to your chores." Killian retreated, as gracefully as possible, back around the table and towards the door of the cabin, a quiet "Thank-you," reaching his ears just before he stepped outside the door.

Killian went to check on Henry, although the boy had most things in hand. The red cow was giving him some difficulty, however, and refusing to co-operate no matter how much Henry tried persuading her to stand where he wanted her to. It was tempting to offer up a few words on how Henry should get used to the obstinate ways of women and that Emma's almost complete refusal to accept that he may admire her was a perfect example, but he was wary of bringing Henry into his confidence. The lad was too young, and far too likely to, understandably, take his mother's side.

And he'd played that role himself, and hated every minute of it.

So there was no choice but to bide his time; finish the milking, report for breakfast and hope that the welcome in the cabin if not perhaps warm, was at least pleasant.

Certainly Emma appeared more relaxed when they were in the presence of Henry, who monopolised the conversation by talking about the shorter day at school, or, rather, attempting to persuade his mother than attendance for a morning only was hardly worth the bother.

But Emma was not to be moved by Henry's impassioned speech on just how useful he could be, and Killian was afraid that he had made an enemy of the boy by not coming to his defence. However just as he could not involve Henry in the complicated relationship between himself and Emma, he similarly could not over-ride Emma when it came to Henry's well-being.

He had, after all, attempted just that on their first morning here and soon learned the error of his ways. Emma was as hard to move as the red cow on her worst day.

And Killian admired her for that.

He did not have the opportunity to speak to Emma privately again until he was in back in the field, and she came to join him. "Well, does it suit me?" she demanded, gesturing to the clothes that hung loosely on her frame.

Killian wasn't certain there was an answer to that question which didn't involve outright lying. While he was trying to find a plausible sequence of words that would tie him to no particular opinion, Emma continued to watch him. "Are you certain that you wish to ask for such flattery? You didn't seem at all pleased with my attempt to compliment you this morning. Although perhaps I was a fool for even saying the words; I have been informed of your distrust of my fine words."

She frowned, this clearly not being the answer she expected from him and Killian felt a little like a heel for bringing the whole embarrassing moment back again.

Emma looked at a point on the horizon. "I felt that perhaps those words were less than fine and more than truthful. It was…well; I had the fire to set and I fear I could not appreciate them. For that I am sorry."

To Killian's eyes, Emma looked decidedly uncomfortable, which negated the whole idea behind giving her Liam's clothes in the first place. Most troubling was the notion that it was his words, as sincere as they had been, which had made her so. He wasn't at all certain of finding a suitable way to reassure her when it seemed to be the truthfulness with which he'd spoken that was the root cause of her discomfort.

It was decidedly puzzling but, while he was appreciative of the puzzle that was Emma and would enjoy the chance to study her further, right then he was mostly concerned with restoring her good humour. "Well, I would suggest you refrain from lighting any fires at the moment, with all that excess fabric I imagine you are highly flammable."

This earned him a small smile from Emma, and she appeared to be more comfortable discussing the clothes than she did Killian's admiration for her. "They are, of course, a little large…although surprisingly not the most ill-fitting things I have ever worn. Are you sure you wish me to have them? They will not be of more use to yourself?"

"No. I think my days of discovering how poorly Liam's hand-me-downs fit me have quite passed." He pressed his lips together in what he hoped was a smile, although he felt like doing anything else but smiling right at that moment. "But the object of the exercise was to make you more comfortable. If that is not the case, then do not feel any obligation to dress up as…well, like  _that_ , on my account. It is truly your choice."

Emma didn't reply to that other than to give a small nod and then, unexpectedly, she reached out and touched his arm, gently, her fingers clasping his left arm above the elbow, well out of the way of the brace, but he still had to steel himself not to flinch and pull his arm away.

Emma's fingers lingered for only a moment, administering the barest of squeezes, before she retracted her hand and Killian was left unsure of whether the gesture was designed to show gratitude or console him for his loss; perhaps it was both. All he knew was that as pleasing as it was to admire Emma from afar, it was far more enjoyable if she was close enough to touch. And that he'd trade a thousand glimpses of her stepping out of a bath for the chance to have her put her arms around him.

"Of course", she continued, stepping back a little. "I will need to return to my own clothes before Henry arrives home. I doubt he will be as understanding as you have been about the practicality of this garb trumping my need to look like a proper woman."

"I can tell you're still a woman," Killian said, a little obstinately,

"Yes, but I am not your mother and I think that would make a difference. I just..." Emma stopped and looked down at what she was wearing. "Regina would have despaired at looking like this. I need to remember that Henry is adjusting to a great many things and he does not need the added burden of a mother who does not conform to the world in which he thinks we live."

Killian opened his mouth, ready to defend her right to do as she bloody well pleased, but he closed it again, quickly, seeing there was some sense to her words. The lad's world had been turned upside down in the space of a week, perhaps it was no bad thing to leave him in ignorance about his mother's choices, as unorthodox as they would no doubt appear to Henry. There were many times in his own childhood when he'd wished for the same consideration.

Instead he watched as Emma walked towards the corner of the field she'd claimed as her own, carrying her hoe with her. It hadn't escaped his attention that she picked an area far away from him to work, and he tried not to feel slighted by that fact. Instead he decided to simply admire her work ethic, amongst other things. In truth he should be glad that she had taken to her task so well, that, despite whatever misgivings he still harboured about their ability to actually make the farm a going concern, she had not baulked at the task ahead of them.

Whether by design, or simply good luck, it turned out that Liam had picked well when he'd chosen a wife he'd never met in person.

But Killian wished to avoid any lingering thoughts of Liam, or even Emma, and picked up his own hoe intending to focus solely on the work ahead. Evidently Emma had the same plan, and soon there was silence, save for the sound of the hoes as they hit the hard earth.

And Killian was sure that their morning of dedicated hard work would have been impressive had it not ended quite so abruptly when Henry arrived over the ridge that bordered the field, clearly earlier than Emma had anticipated.

Afterwards Killian reflected that Henry may have reacted better to the sight of Emma dressed in men's clothes had she not appeared quite so shocked to have been caught out, straightening up and looking for all intents and purposes like she might try to flee from the scene.

Henry's arrival point was closest to where Killian was working and that was who Henry approached first. "Is that Mama?"

"Aye." There was hardly any point denying the fact, despite the fact it was plain from his voice that Henry wished him to do so.

"But she's…" Henry's words halted as Emma approached them, looking terribly guilty, her attempt to hide it behind a brisk comment of "You're home early," completely failing to do so.

"I wanted to see what you were doing," Henry said, his eyes scanning, once again, over Emma's attire. "But…why are you dressed like a man?"

"Well." Emma paused for long enough to give away the fact that she didn't have a ready answer for Henry. "It's more practical, and living here I think we need to be practical."

Henry looked less than convinced by his mother's reasoning. "But Miss Blanchard came here too, and she wears a dress," he countered. "Plus those other women at the school."

Killian watched Emma carefully, wondering how she would react to being compared to the teacher and the other pupil's mothers. The annoyance showed plain in her features for a moment or two, before she managed to soften her expression. Her words, however, retained the clipped tones of someone who did not want to be having this conversation.

"Well, they are hardly working in a field. This is a temporary solution for practical purposes because I can assure you that no one was ever meant to wield a hoe in a dress."

Henry looked a little chastened, but then he stuck his chin out in a perfect imitation of his mother and announced "I just…I don't think it's right, is all."

Killian wanted to point out that practical doesn't always intersect with the concept of right, which tended to vary from person to person anyway. But he kept quiet and waited to see what Emma's response was.

He suspected that Emma was thinking something along the same lines, but held herself back, and for a moment all she did was press her lips together and look anywhere but at Henry's face. When she did finally speak, her words were not much gentler than they had been previously. "I think it's time for lunch, Henry. Go on up to the house and I'll be there shortly." With that she turned on her heel and walked back towards the hoe that had been left lying on the ground.

Henry looked less than satisfied, his clear discomfort with the situation manifesting in the way his feet shuffled and his arms twisted at his sides. "It just doesn't seem right," he muttered, only just loud enough to be heard.

Killian felt for the lad, and the fact he was clearly struggling to articulate just what he didn't like about the garments his mother was wearing. It was tempting to remind Henry that adults had the right to do as they pleased without being called to account for it by children, but the boy was merely saying out loud what everyone else would think should they see Emma dressed this way and Killian didn't think singling Henry out for censure would do much good.

And Henry, no doubt sensing that while no rebuke was forthcoming, Killian was not about to commiserate with him either, sighed deeply and then trudged off looking as though he had bricks strapped to his feet. Killian hoped he would get over it soon and that the evening meal would not be spoiled by a feud between mother and son.

As Emma came past him, however, carrying the hoe she'd recovered he found out that he may have been mistaken about where blame was being laid. "I should have known better than to take up your offer. I'm sure it was meant well, Mr Jones, but as you can see, there are some lines that shouldn't be crossed."

Killian was a little shocked to suddenly be on the receiving end of an accusation, and it took him a moment to realise that not only was he apparently the source of Emma's problems, but he was now back to being Mr Jones as well. And while he knew that her words were fuelled by her frustration with Henry and that speaking to defend himself was the last thing Emma would welcome, he had held his tongue far too long that morning and was no longer prepared to be a silent observer.

"I'm sure you remember that I merely made a suggestion; the choice to dress how you are was entirely in your hands.  _Emma._ " Killian watched Emma's eyes widen at his words, her lips press together and then he was stuck with the sight of her back as she walked away from him, much faster than Henry had done moments before.

It left him a little deflated; while he felt that any argument that may have ensued would have been entirely at Emma's provocation, he had felt that rush of blood that normally proceeded such an event. If Emma wasn't prepared to stay in the field and actually answer the charge he'd put to her, he was left with a surfeit of nervous energy.

There was nothing for it, but to return to the work at hand. There was no way he could show his face for lunch now, and he was in no mood for uncomfortable silence broken only by Emma kicking the stove when it didn't behave. Instead he dug the hoe into the earth as hard as he could, and tried to ignore the urge to run after Emma and insist she recant her accusations. It would do no good, she had fled and she clearly needed time to deal with Henry on her own.

But still, it hurt that she was so quick to turn against him when things were not going her way. And her refusal to call him Killian was the worst blow of all.

Perhaps he'd been a fool for thinking he could ever be more than Mr Jones to her.

That thought gnawed at him as he spent the afternoon working, slowly and painfully breaking the earth and turning it over. By the time the sun had moved across the sky he was almost convinced that there was very little point returning to the cabin, that he would be persona non grata ever after. Or that, worse, he might return to find that Emma and Henry had left altogether.

Killian had run through so many potential scenarios, none of them good, by the time he did walk back to the cabin that he was almost pleasantly surprised to find the worst thing awaiting him was a rather solemn Henry carrying feed for the chickens.

"Mama says it's supper time," he announced, sounding less than impressed by the fact.

"Alright. I'll, um, just wash up and then I'll head inside."

Whatever response Henry expected it was clear that Killian's words hadn't satisfied him. Instead of relaying the message to Emma, he followed behind Killian, swinging the pail beside his legs as he walked.

"Mama's wearing a dress again," he announced to Killian's back.

"Is she?" They reached the barn and Killian stepped inside to place his hoe back where it belonged against the wall, when he came back out Henry was looking at him expectantly, as though he was the one who should be answering a question. "That's…uh. To be expected?"

Killian wasn't at all sure what Henry expected of him in this matter and it was difficult not to feel cornered. He had been trying to lay low and hope the dust settled and his one mistake had already cost him dearly; the last thing he wanted was to accidentally end up taking Henry's side against Emma, or rebuking Henry if Emma had already set the boy straight while Killian was working.

He was beginning to wish he'd stayed in the field a while longer and avoided everyone and everything for as long as possible.

"So I think it will be alright now, won't it Mr Jones?"

"In what way?"

"Well…" Henry paused, and looked down at the ground and shuffled the handle of the bucket in his hands. "You could come back, now. Into the cabin. Because…well, you don't have to be mad, or anything."

"You think I took issue with how your mother was dressed?"

Now it was Henry's turn to look taken aback. "I just thought…I mean. I don't know, Mr Jones." The last part sounded defensive, as though it had been Killian accusing him of some misdeed.

"But you think there's some bad blood between us?"

"Mama scrubbed the table for a long time. It's a good thing there's a table left, I guess. And you didn't come for lunch. It was just us, and Mama was awfully unhappy the whole time." Henry's voice dropped down to a whisper. "It was worse than this morning, when there was no kindling."

"And she didn't say why she was unhappy?"

Henry looked distinctly uncomfortable at that question. "Well, I guess it's because of the clothes she was wearing? And…and…because she'd done something bad?" He screwed up one side of his face and looked uncertain about the whole thing.

Killian was also far from certain. It was hard to believe the boy couldn't put two and two together and figure out that the most likely cause for Emma's alleged mood was himself. However, Killian was also acutely aware that Henry had barely lived with Emma up until this point in his life. Perhaps he really was a complete novice when it came to his mother?

And he felt inclined to sympathise with Henry over that.

"I think Henry, that perhaps she was a little disconcerted at you calling her to account over the way she was dressed. And then, I concede, she was disgruntled with something I said as well. Perhaps it's best to leave all discussion of your mother's choice of clothing for now and just let her choose what is practical."

"So…you weren't mad she didn't look like someone's wife?" Killian had started to walk towards the sod hut, with the notion of actually trying to look somewhat presentable when he fronted up for supper, and Henry had continued to follow him. Whatever comfort he'd hoped his words would provide the boy, they had surely missed their mark.

"No. I wasn't…was that what you thought?"

"Well…it's just that when we were coming here Mama said that we'd all have to be on our best behaviour, and something about how she'd have to learn to be a wife…I guess because my father died on her and she never really got to be one. I don't know, really. Anyway, she made it sound like…well, you know how Aunt Regina had the gentlemen guests who lived with us? She used to say that if they didn't know how to be a gentleman and a proper guest then they could leave. So I guess I thought that if Mama wasn't a proper wife…" He trailed off and Killian stopped at the door of the hut and faced him.

"You thought I might send you away?"

Henry shrugged, the pail in his hands rising up with the action. "I didn't know, but Mama sounded serious when she said it. Because it's not right, is it? A lady wearing pants. And if she can't be a proper lady, maybe she's not a proper wife?"

"I don't really think her attire would make that much of a difference, Henry."

"Don't you, Mr Jones? It's not something you see though, is it? Ladies dressed like that. None of the other ladies around here do, not even those ones at the school that didn't seem to have any men with them."

Killian had no idea why Henry thought the mothers of his classmates were so special, but he was far more concerned with Henry's fears about Emma's transgressions.

"I think that you can rest assured that no one is sending anyone away and just…well I don't think it matters what your mother wears on the outside. She's a good woman, and that's what counts."

He hoped that this would be the words that would end discussion on the matter, but Henry was not an easy person to placate with mere words. Killian supposed he had that in common with Emma.

"So are you a good man then, Mr Jones?"

Killian had thought that Henry had reached the pinnacle of difficult questions but he hadn't anticipated the lad's sudden interest in his own morality.

"I hope so, Henry." It was the utter truth; he hoped to be good enough to one day feel that he deserved Emma, whether she was wearing pants or not. He just couldn't be certain that it would ever happen.

Henry, who no doubt still retained a more black and white view of the world, despite the fact that Emma's odd clothing choice had perplexed him earlier, seemed satisfied with that answer. "I guess that's good then. Because you're married and...everything."

Killian couldn't be entirely certain what Henry's concept of 'everything' entailed. To his own mind it was far more complex a thing than could be encapsulated by that one word. But he had little desire to discuss the matter further with Henry lest he accidentally give away the fact that his desire for this 'everything' with Emma had nearly burned a hole in his heart.

"You had better run inside now, Henry. Tell your mother I'll be along shortly."

"Yes, Mr Jones." Henry ran off and Killian did his best to clean up a little at the cracked basin in the hut, before facing whatever was waiting for him.

Despite his best attempts not to appear too cautious as he stepped across the threshold of the cabin, despite not being sure of the welcome that would be waiting for him, or if there would even be a welcome of any description.

But looking around the door of the cabin elicited almost no response from Emma, save for the fact her eyes flicked in his direction, briefly, before returning to the pot out of which she was currently spooning something. She put one plate in front of Henry, and another at the empty place in front of Killian and turned her back to the table.

It seemed like he was to sit down and eat and while he thought he should be grateful to still be included in family meals he couldn't help but feel more than a little disappointed that his presence made almost no difference to Emma. Save for the extra plate of food she had served there was nothing to mark the fact he was sitting at the table as well as Henry.

Emma sat, but her eyes were mostly on Henry and her own food and, after Henry was prompted to say a short grace, Killian set about eating what appeared to be a reminder of the fact that the household supplies were running short again. The few vegetables on the plate were barely appetising, but he ate them with as much relish as he could muster, finishing before either Henry or Emma.

That, at least, got Emma's attention and prompted her to ask. "Will you have more, Killian?"

Those were the first words she had spoken since walking away from him earlier, and while they were hardly kind, they were not unduly harsh either. Although the pointed use of his name was impossible to miss and brought back a less than pleasant reminder of how he had chided her earlier and made him wonder whether Emma was the sort of person who might hold a grudge.

He managed to stammer out a "Yes, please," in response, and he watched Emma rise from the table, wordlessly, wondering if he had atoned sufficiently, when Henry suddenly addressed him.

"Mr Jones, is that your name?"

"Aye. It is." Killian kept his eyes on Emma as she crossed back to the table with the pot of stew and began replenishing the food on his plate.

"Killian?" Henry repeated. "I haven't heard a name like that before."

"It's Irish…uh, thank you." He was a little late with his gratitude, distracted by Henry's questions, and he had ended up speaking to Emma's back. She smiled at him though, as she resumed her seat, and Killian could only hope that there was to be no holding of grudges.

He set about finishing up the food in front of him, but was interrupted, again, by Henry. "Are you  _Irish_ , Mr Jones?"

"Well. Yes." There was no point in denying that fact, but the look of astonishment in Henry's eyes was still a little hard to stomach. It was clear he was re-evaluating Killian in light of this new information and Emma's stern look from her side of the table was completely missed by the boy.

It wasn't as though Killian wasn't used to it, but this felt a little close to home. A few hours earlier he had been admiring Liam's skill in picking a wife; now he was worried that Emma would be the one regretting her choice.

"Henry, I don't really think it makes any difference one way or the other," Emma said, attempting to halt the conversation in its tracks.

"I suppose not," Henry agreed. "I just haven't really met one before. Aunt Regina didn't think they were fit to be guests." The words rolled off his tongue as though it was a fact that every person in the world just knew. And while Killian was completely aware of the attitudes that existed out in the world, it was galling to realise that they were not the sole domain of adults who should know better.

A deeply awkward silence fell over the table; Killian wondering if he should say something in his own defence, and Emma looking quietly mortified. Only Henry seemed not to notice the effect his words were having on the adults and he blundered on unthinkingly. "Although she did say that the Irish girls made the best maids and that they didn't go around just hiding their mistakes under their aprons."

"Is that right, lad?" Killian's focus was no longer on Henry but on Emma, whose level of discomfort had increased dramatically at her son's last words. It was a little perplexing, really, because Henry was moving further away from his original topic and likely to completely forget the fact that he had begun the conversation by marvelling at Killian's strangeness and unsuitability as one of Regina's guests.

But Emma's face was scrunched and uncomfortable looking and she had gone from trying to make eye contact with Henry and warn him away from the topic, to staring unblinkingly at the hands twisting in her lap. And all of a sudden it wasn't so perplexing anymore. Henry's throw-away comment about mistakes had clearly hit Emma, the maid who'd concealed a pregnancy from her employer, hard. More to the point the fact that Henry could be termed a mistake shed somewhat of a new light on why exactly Emma had been so reckless with the truth of her situation.

It wasn't a thing he would probably ask her outright, but it became clear to Killian in that moment just how alone and desperate Emma must have been. He wished there was some way he could tell her how much he admired her resolve to carry on and do her best for her son, but there were no suitable words that didn't breach the walls of the past she'd built for herself, a past she'd no doubt defend to the end.

And so he merely waited until her eyes lifted a little and smiled at her across the table, and hoped she caught his intent.

The meal finished, Killian left the cabin and its inhabitants to their nightly rituals and began his own, although he couldn't help but continue listening to the sounds of their conversation as they carried across the yard. Henry's good-humour had never faltered, the boy having completely missed the pain he'd caused his mother this time, and it was mostly his voice Killian could hear. Emma's words were only heard occasionally but as long as they were there, and she was speaking still, Killian felt a little better.

He had forgotten what it was like to carry around the worry that the people you lived with, the ones that perhaps were your family, were unhappy with each other. It was a burden he'd never expected to have again, and he wasn't entirely certain he was prepared for it.

All seemed calm, and yet Killian couldn't stop himself from continuing to listen to Henry and Emma's voices, to the point where he was almost convinced he had crossed the boundaries into eavesdropping. In the process he'd drifted nearer and nearer to the cabin, attempting to find some plausible reason for being so close, although there were scant jobs that he could claim needed his attention in the failing light of the yard.

Realising that discovery would be a blow to his pride, if not a break in whatever fragile peace currently existed between Emma and himself, Killian started to make his way back towards the hut with the intention of finding his bed and trying to refrain from the allure of the alcohol still lurking on the trunk in the corner of his room. A light beside the cabin caught his attention and he stopped short and watched Emma appear with a lamp and begin what seemed a complicated and rather strange process of bringing the basin and jug out of the cabin and setting them down in the dirt. It was only when she knelt and poured the water over her own head that he realised what it was she was doing.

It was an odd feeling, watching her in such a fashion and knowing that she thought herself alone. He may have seen her bathe, but he couldn't shake the notion that she had engineered that moment for his benefit. This was a woman completely unawares and, to Killian's mind at least, utterly mesmerising.

Unable to leave the scene in front of him, but knowing he risked discovery the longer he stayed, Killian was torn. He watched, silently, as Emma rubbed something…an egg, perhaps?...through her hair and then began the process of rinsing it out before she took a seat on the little stool outside the cabin and pulled a comb out of her pocket.

Emma's hands moved quickly as she combed out the wet, tangled mess of her hair and, lovely a sight as she was, the light had almost gone now and Killian felt he should take advantage of the inky shadows and find the way back to his own dwelling. But then Emma let out a long, deep sigh and cast her gaze around the yard and he was suddenly filled with the notion that perhaps his company would not be completely unwelcome.

He stepped forward with purpose, as though he was only now coming upon the scene, and Emma looked over at him and smiled. Or, at least, he thought she did. Maybe it was the shadow cast by the lamplight playing across her face and his own wishful thinking. But he smiled in return and she did not seem unduly surprised when he spoke. "You are out late tonight."

"The evening seems to have flown past me, unfortunately. I had a mind to do this prior to supper but I set to washing Henry's hair first and he took a considerable amount of persuading despite the fact he has less hair than I. I suppose I shall have to be resigned to sleeping with a damp pillow tonight."

"Well, there is a remedy for that but it would take a braver man than I to suggest it, given the earlier…uh, situation we encountered this afternoon."

"Yes, I fear that cutting my hair would not be well received by Henry at all, despite the fact he now assures me that the fact I wore men's clothes does not mean I am not married to a good man…or something to that effect anyway." Emma did smile this time; Killian was close enough to make out the sly curve of her lips as she glanced at the ground and then over at him through her lashes.

"Well, Henry would know. The lad seems wise beyond his years." He liked the playful Emma, even though he knew there was no small degree of artifice in her manner. Still, it was far more pleasant than a silent and vengeful Emma, and he was determined to maintain good relations as long as he could.

Emma huffed a little in response. "Unfortunately he is a little over-fond of repeating the things he has grown up hearing, without examining whether they are true or not." She let the hand holding the comb fall to her lap. "I'm sorry that he was so thoughtless during dinner, and…sorry also for my own harsh words earlier. It has been a little trying attempting to…well, to navigate this path I find myself on. I did not expect to encounter quite so many obstructions along the way, and certainly not in the form of Henry. It has been a little unexpected to say the least."

"I can imagine." He hoped he sounded sincere, because he well understood the difficulty in reconciling the image of the family you thought you might be able to have and the behaviour of the people within it.

"I hope that Henry will be able to find his place here," Emma said, barely acknowledging that Killian had spoken. "Despite the fact he has found me a disappointment."

"I hardly think you are the only one who surprised him today." As painful as it was to remember Henry's thoughtless words he wanted to ensure that Emma did not feel unduly singled out. Henry's view was, after all, that of a child and he would learn soon enough that absolutes were rare in the world they lived in.

"No, but even so…" Her voice trailed off and Emma twisted the comb in her lap a couple of times before she seemed to arise at a decision to speak her mind. "I was mostly raised in an orphanage…I never saw my own parents and cannot tell if Henry's occasional disappointment is par for the course. But, despite my lack of experience of parental love, I do understand what I have missed, and it was not just the warmth of my family. I missed out on a community, on others on whom I could rely when times were tough. That is what I wish for Henry, above all else. That if I, in some way, fail him he will have others who can take my place."

Killian judged that Emma had finished her speech and assumed this was his time to assure her that as her husband he would always ensure Henry was well cared for, but he had clearly misjudged the situation and before he could open his mouth Emma continued. "And so, with that aim in mind, I mean to take Henry to church in the morning."

"I see." Killian's mind scrambled to figure out the correct response to this news. In the end he settled on small talk and skirting the issue rather than risk Emma stating outright how unhappy she was with her new situation. "And this has prompted the hair-washing tonight?"

"Perhaps, although it is the one practice I still adhere to from my days in the orphanage. Our hair was always washed on Saturdays."

"Well. I will leave you to your ablutions." He turned and started to leave, but Emma's hand reached out and brushed his sleeve, making him stop in his tracks.

"I could uh…wash yours, if you wished?"

For a moment he toyed with the idea of refusing and retreating in order to lick his wounds, but the sincerity of the offer and the opportunity for further contact with Emma it presented, prompted him to agree.

Emma stood and gestured to the stool. "If you sit I'll just check on Henry and be back in a moment." She disappeared inside the cabin and Killian was again struck with the idea of fleeing from her ministrations in much the same way as Henry would have desired should he had found the opportunity to do so.

But he stayed rooted to the spot, and, soon, Emma re-emerged with a rather fond smile on her face, and draped a towel over Killian's shoulders, her touch all too brief. "He is asleep, and I'm afraid I took the opportunity to watch him for a while. It never ceases to amaze me how different he looks in slumber. All of a sudden I can see the little boy I once had and, although Henry is far from that infant these days, I am glad that a part of him lives on."

Her voice was wistful and tinged with sadness and Killian wished that he could believe that she would allow him some opportunity to comfort her, but instead he watched as Emma set her shoulders, shook her still-damp hair and adopted an air of brisk efficiency. "Lean forward, then. Over the basin."

Killian couldn't be entirely certain whether this was prompted by Emma's belief in his helplessness, or a genuine kindness on her part. Perhaps she merely wanted to retain his company for a little longer, and, certainly, as she poured water over his scalp and then with strong, sure fingers, rubbed soap through his hair, she was happy to talk further of her plans for the following day.

"I am hopeful that getting to know the people in this town will serve Henry well in the long term. After all, I am not conceited enough to believe that I will live forever and I want to know that Henry is well-settled."

"I am certain that he will be…content here in Storybrooke."

"I hope so. I hope that this move will serve the both of us well. All of us, I suppose."

Killian wasn't certain whether he should feel dismissed as a mere afterthought or encouraged by the fact that he was, at least, being included in Emma's plans for a happier future. Instead he settled back to enjoy the closeness of their bodies as she leaned over him. They'd been close before, the hanging of the washing line and the lessons with the shotgun being the notable occasions he'd had to stand so close to her, to put his arms around her and just pretend.

But never had she touched him so willingly, and it was pure pleasure being able to enjoy these few moments, the touches he'd longed for that morning. Her hands were sure, but gentle all the same and the occasional brush of her bosom against his shoulders as she leaned into her task was no mere trifling touch, but seemed to Killian to promise the great delight he could enjoy should Emma deign to press herself more willingly against him in other circumstances.

Determined not to do anything to make her uncomfortable he sat as still as he could, his good hand holding the towel and the hook resting on his lap, far away from where it might accidentally damage Emma. And he was glad of the arm resting there when Emma stood in front of him and he found his gaze filled only with the sight of her breasts, close enough that he could lean forward and place his mouth there if he so wished. He would do no such thing, of course, but it didn't stop his blood pumping faster and the arousal that bloomed in his loins.

"There, that should be better," Emma said, with a smile and he couldn't help but enjoy her delight in helping him. It was a rare treat, he realised, to be someone's sole focus…to be  _Emma's_  only focus, and the bliss in that moment was all-encompassing.

When the last of the soap was rinsed from his hair, he straightened up while she stood back to admire her handiwork. The lamp behind her was shining through her hair and he felt a little like the insects it had attracted, drawn to something bright and hot and ultimately dangerous. But Emma wasn't the one who'd bring danger here.

He was.

"And so you will accompany us?" she asked, and Killian was at a loss for what the topic of conversation had been and then he remembered. Church.

"Ah. No. I'm afraid it's not a place I would be…very comfortable."

"They are not your people." She looked away, a sad smile on her face. "I don't mind, you know. About…anything Henry may have spoken of earlier. Regina's household was never truly mine and I don't share her views, and I knew what I had agreed to when I came here. I may have spoken harsh words earlier, but they do not come from a true disappointment with my situation, but with…well, I am sorry anyway. And I do not wish to press you into something, but please understand that I don't expect more of you than you can offer me. You have said that you…admired me. I hope that this admiration is born of a…a…mutual respect. Not just…fleeting appearances. I hope that we both want the same thing."

It wasn't, of course, the country of his birth that was the only way in which Killian could embarrass Emma and he was torn between the pain of causing her hurt now, and the potential discomfort she would have to endure on the morrow should they attend the little church together.

"I…I can't."

"I understand," Emma replied, a little too quickly and with a harsher edge to her words than they had previously held. "I do, really. You needn't worry. I'm sure Henry and I will be just fine."

"I do thank you, Emma. For your care of me tonight." Killian stood and took a step towards her, hoping to regain some of their earlier good cheer. He wanted it back, and more besides. He wanted her to invite him into the cabin, to hold him in her arms. He wanted her to keep saying that she didn't care what he was and what he'd done until he could almost believe it himself.

But Emma wanted something else entirely, perhaps someone else entirely. A man who could hold his head high in church, set an example for her son. A man that Killian would never be.

"Goodnight, Killian. Sleep well." Emma picked up the discarded towel and the lamp and he watched it disappear inside the cabin, the light he desired so strongly disappearing along with it.

After a few moments his eyes adjusted to the sudden return to darkness, but his heart still yearned for something brighter in his life. Something that could only be illuminated by the fall of silken hair and the smile of the woman who had captured something in his very soul.

He rebelled, though, against the longing. Turned traitor and fell, once again, into the arms of his old mistress the whiskey, despite knowing full well that it could never blot out his true desires, never cure him of his vices, and certainly never make him into something he was not.

He had thought himself such a fine, forgiving man. Uncaring of the way in which his new wife had come to motherhood, desirous to prove that he held her to no unachievable feminine ideal. That he valued her for who she was when she was with him, and not for who he had hoped would warm his bed at night. But he was just as much a hypocrite as the citizens of Storybrooke who would fill the church pews the next morning.

Whatever promise the day had started with it had now been shaken into the dirt at his feet along with the water Emma had poured over his hair. His fine words about winning her, his promise to not constrain her, all proven lies now he could not give her this one simple thing she desired.

He was a fool, and he would be lucky if Emma never thought him worse than that.


	15. Chapter 15

Killian did not linger in the cabin long enough to watch Henry and Emma leave for church, preferring to leave as soon as he had finished eating breakfast. The meal had been pleasant enough, Emma showing no outward sign of any grudge she might be holding towards him.

Somehow, though, that made it worse. If she had been truly disappointed then it would have shown plain in her face as she served up his food. Instead he was met with an almost bland pleasantness which was mostly drowned out by Henry's happy murmurings anyway.

It was far too late to recant his statements from the previous night and he doubted it would do much to change Emma's opinion of him anyway. Adding vacillation to his list of crimes would hardly see him rise in Emma's estimation.

And so he set about to find some tasks to occupy him and settled on re-arranging the tools in the barn. What should have been a mindless task became a test of his dexterity with one hand when he managed to spill a jar of nails amongst the straw of the ground and his resulting cursing brought the white cow to look at him over the stall as he scrabbled around trying to locate the errant items.

He was wary of reading too much into a simple mishap, one far more easily rectified by a person with two hands, but Killian couldn't help but feel that kneeling on the barn floor, painstakingly picking up scattered nails one by one before any of them were located by Henry's feet, was somehow symbolic of just how much punishment he deserved. Although quite what he deserved it for he couldn't completely articulate. He just knew that the feeling of having failed Emma was all-pervading.

It was not much of a relief when Henry and Emma returned as the sun started to tip towards the West. He still felt exposed and somehow bereft, despite the fact the people whose company he feared losing had returned, nothing felt as it should to Killian. It was like the dry earth they all stood on had cracked leaving him on one side and Emma and Henry on the other.

Or, at least, that seemed to be his interpretation of the situation at hand. Emma, it appeared, had a differing view altogether as the first thing she did on arrival was to seek him out in the barn. "I suspected that I might find you in here. Lurking."

Killian was tempted to defend himself, but curiosity about Emma's exact purpose prevented him from speaking up. After all, the last time she had sought him out with such purpose it had been to inform him that a chicken had been taken. He idly wondered if he should inquire as to Henry's current state, but instead he stuck to what, he hoped, was a safer topic. "And how was the service this morning?"

He'd expected a short affirmation that all was well before Emma moved on to other pursuits, but instead she huffed and pursed her lips before beginning to speak quickly and with her eyes on the ground beside them. "I think that, perhaps, when you agreed with me last night that the parishioners were not your people, you forgot one important matter."

"And that is?"

"They are not my people either. It was…not the most comfortable experience of my life. Miss Blanchard was good enough to seek us out, but that left us sitting alongside the people she is currently staying with. The sheriff and his mother seem pleasant enough but his step-father, Mr Spencer, he was clearly not pleased with our presence. I would have been far more comfortable seated further back."

"With the plainer souls."

"With the souls less likely to loudly tut every time Henry shuffled in his seat. He is well used to sitting in church, but I think even the most docile of boys have their limits."

Killian nodded in agreement, remembering his own childhood attempts to distract Liam during mass. "I'm sure no one holds Henry up to an impossible standard."

"Well, I doubt that. And I just think…" She paused in her speech and reached up to untie the bonnet she was wearing, rubbing a hand over her scalp after it was removed. "I think it might have been easier if we were not seen as requiring the kindness of strangers."

Emma looked at him then, her eyes clear and green and her message equally as piercing. He may have been a fool, he may have let her down, but this was his second chance. Either he agreed that he was part of her company now or he faced a future that no doubt would include much lurking in the barn.

"Perhaps I might be able to accompany you, next time."

"I would appreciate that. And I'm certain Mr Spencer would thank you as well."

Killian shrugged. "It would hardly be for his benefit that I would set foot in that church again."

Emma gave him a small and, he hoped, grateful smile and started to turn away. "I'll have lunch ready shortly." With that she walked back across the yard towards the cabin, not once turning back.

He had to admire her resolve. He had wavered terribly and nearly proved her fear of his 'fine words' to be all too correct. It gave him hope, but it was hope that was tempered with a terrible fear that something else may yet arise that would mean there were no more chances given to him.

Henry was in high spirits over lunch, a morning's worth of good behaviour seemed to have left him with an awful number of things he had to say. None of them were of much consequence, and none of them could attract Killian's attention in the same way that Emma could by simply sitting at the table silently watching Henry re-enact the complicated seating arrangements during Sunday school.

When they had finished eating Henry's energy seemed likely to over-flow if not given some kind of an outlet. There was a close call when the small china bowl was nearly sent crashing to the ground and the look on Emma's face when one of their few dishes was nearly lost did not bear repeating any time soon.

"I was thinking that perhaps I might see if I could locate any rabbits, and bring back something for supper," Killian proposed. "Henry, would you like to accompany me?"

Henry looked to Emma for her approval, and she nodded, wiping her hands on her apron. "I think it's a fine idea."

Killian felt a little bolder at that. "And perhaps you might like to join us, as well?"

Emma looked sideways, and down and, for a moment, he thought the answer would be no, but she nodded again and reached behind her to untie her apron.

"I could do with the fresh air, and I'm sure it won't hurt to have a second pair of eyes on Henry."

"You don't need to worry about me, Mama. I'll be fine," Henry assured her, turning around so fast that he caught his foot on the chair and it toppled to the ground.

"Well, I'll come all the same."

If Killian had been hoping that this hunting excursion would bring him the opportunity to spend some time alone with Emma, then he had been sadly mistaken. Emma remained glued to Henry's side and, when she allowed him a little space as he attempted to find a reason to actually discharge the gun, she kept her eyes on him, only occasionally glancing in Killian's direction and probably only to make sure that he was watching where Henry was pointing that gun, too.

But Killian couldn't find it in him to be too disappointed. Not when Henry, against all odds and plain common sense, managed to not only locate but hit one small grey rabbit. The smile that split the boy's face as he held up the bloody corpse for his mother's approval lifted Killian's spirits remarkably, even as it made him feel somewhat melancholy.

Emma had told him that she was perfectly aware of all she had missed out on, even though she'd never had it. But Killian could remember, in torturous detail, exactly what it was like the first time he'd killed something, and how proud Liam had been of him. Moreover he could imagine just how much Liam would have enjoyed this moment, too, and the opportunity to instruct some other boy in the same manner.

It was an odd feeling, to be able to enjoy the moment with Henry, congratulate him and share a smile with Emma, and yet still have that emptiness at his core that told him that someone was missing, that the world wasn't right and it never quite would be again. And perhaps it wouldn't have been so painful if Emma and Henry themselves weren't the biggest reminder that Liam was no longer part of his life.

"You've done very well, Henry," he assured him, when the risk that his ongoing silence might be noticed became too great. "Just grand, lad."

"I kept saying I could, but Mama wasn't sure. Were you, Mama?"

"I just didn't want you to injure anyone we couldn't eat for supper," Emma replied, glancing over at Killian in the process. Henry passed the rabbit over to his mother and she took it with, Killian noted, a little less distaste than she had the one he'd presented her with earlier in the week.

"Do you think there'll be any more?" Henry asked, shading his eyes and looking over at where Killian was standing.

"Maybe." That was clearly all the encouragement Henry needed to keep going, and so their little party progressed further along the edge of the property. Another rabbit did appear, but this was one was larger, and a little faster, and Henry's shot didn't find its target.

Henry lowered the gun and shook his arm. "Maybe you should have a try now, Mr Jones," he suggested. "My arm's a little a tired."

"Perhaps your mother would like the practice?" Killian suggested, turning to Emma.

"No. I think not. Shooting at targets is one thing, but I'm not sure I'm quite ready to draw blood just yet."

They carried on for a little while longer, although Henry, now he had been released from his duties as the main hunter for the party, thought nothing of running in great swoops through the grass, while shouting back to his mother about everything he could see, an activity surely likely to scare off any potential prey.

When another pair of long ears did appear, twitching behind a rock, Killian almost regretted that he was about to dispatch it, not because he felt sorry for it, but because it would no doubt mean the end of his afternoon in the sun with Emma. It was usually only on the rare occasions that he'd encountered her at night that she looked so relaxed; during the day she seemed to prefer working to conversing.

He couldn't remember the last time he had been quite so interested in another person. Certainly, Milah had been captivating from the moment he first set eyes on her, but a certain amount of her allure had been manufactured for his benefit. Knowing this hadn't detracted from his enjoyment of her company, but it was different with Emma. The things he found most fascinating were the simplest things of all; the way she laughed at something Henry said, the way she stared indignantly at the rock which had had the temerity to cause her to trip, the way she kept staring into the distance as though she expected something to appear over the horizon at any moment.

But the rather humiliating knowledge of the meagre state of their supplies meant that he felt duty-bound to shoot the creature and hand it to Emma as Henry had done earlier. "I suppose we should go back now so that we can put these to good use," she said, holding the two rabbits up by their ears.

"Well if you're sure you wouldn't welcome the opportunity to, uh, take aim at something after your rather trying morning." He held the shotgun out towards Emma, but she shook her head.

"No, as trying as it was at times I think I can do without shooting something and pretending it's…" she turned her head in Henry's direction and, judging him far enough away that he couldn't hear her comments, continued on. "Mr Spencer."

"As you wish. Although if that changes at any time you just let me know."

Emma turned and waved at Henry to follow them, before starting back in the direction of the farm. You aren't worried that I might be imagining you in place of the target?" she asked over her shoulder as Killian fell into step beside her.

"I think that if things that were that desperate I should fear that you would turn the gun on me, not on something else in my stead."

For a horrible moment there was silence and he thought that perhaps he had over-stepped the mark and Emma would withdraw from him, falling back behind a barrier of glassy propriety as she had before. But instead she tilted her head slightly and smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she did so. "You give me far too much credit for being blood-thirsty. And I think I hardly view you as the enemy."

"But you have enemies?"

"Well, that fox is still on the loose I suppose. I feel like I have a bone to pick with it."

"Indeed. And I would hate to be in that fox's shoes if it did return." Emma had swayed closer to where he was walking as they spoke and, while it should have been gratifying that her attention was so focused on his words that she missed the rock in her path, it was a little mortifying that when he reached out to steady her he quickly realised that she was unlikely to enjoy being grabbed by a hook, and so he dropped his arm and left Emma to scramble upright on her own.

But even that reminder of just how little he really had to offer Emma couldn't completely spoil his mood. Not when Emma's misstep was accompanied by her laughter and caused her to step a little closer to him, as though she was certain of his ability to protect her from harm, even if Killian doubted it himself.

They reached the farm without incident, although Henry's insistence on running full speed made that a lucky thing. His enthusiasm waned, however, when Emma reminded him he had chores to do.

"But isn't today a day of rest?" he asked, looking pleadingly at his mother.

"I think it's a little late to go and pull out that particular rule. Go and feed the chickens, please."

Henry stalked off and Emma headed inside the cabin, the rabbits still in her hand and Killian, perhaps realising that his other option was, indeed, lurking in the barn, followed her.

It had seemed like a good idea when they were out in the sunshine but in the gloom of the cabin, when Emma turned to look at him quizzically, Killian wondered what on earth he was doing. "I wondered if perhaps you might like help with those," he suggested, nodding at the rabbits.

"Oh. Well, yes. That would be appreciated. If you…If you are willing." He was glad she hadn't added the  _'and if you are able'_  comment that he had been expecting to hear.

"Of course." Killian placed the gun in a corner by the door and joined Emma outside, at the back of the cabin where she had set up her workstation on an old board that was already stained with blood, a cooking pot for the rabbit meat and a basin for everything else set alongside her. She picked up a knife and began work, gritting her teeth and twisting the rabbit this way and that in her hands as she jabbed it with the knife.

"You're much better at this than I am," she commented, watching his progress.

"Well, I have had a little practice."

"This was your job, was it? I mean, when it was just the two of you on the farm?"

Killian shrugged, and tugged another piece of fur loose. "It wasn't Liam's favourite task, no."

"And he got first pick, did he? Of the tasks, I mean." She dropped her eyes back down to the rabbit in her hands.

"He did. I believe that is the advantage of being elder than your companions. I never had the opportunity to find out."

Emma nodded, and poked at her rabbit with the knife she was holding. "That is certainly the way it works in an orphanage, although qualifying for the advantage meant you had been there for so long that it was cold comfort, really."

"Then you are more used to giving the orders than I am, it would seem."

"I doubt that. Any power I had was small at best. But speaking of your brother reminded me of something. At church this morning, I was introduced to someone who asked me to pass on his condolences, he said he'd had business dealings with the both of you in the past. A Mr Gold."

Killian tried to remain as still as he could, attempting to quell the rising tide of panic that threatened to overwhelm his senses. He soon realised, though, that his stillness must appear somewhat alarming to a bystander and forced himself to think of a suitable reply, something that would not belie his internal turmoil.

"That is…correct." After so long a pause in the conversation it was a poor answer and he didn't need the expression on Emma's face to tell him so. But he felt at a distinct disadvantage not knowing what else Gold may have said to Emma and he was unwilling to say too much and give himself away unnecessarily, or, worse, say the wrong thing and brand himself the liar in the process.

Business. He wondered how Milah would feel at being reduced to mere commerce.

"Well…" Emma's head tilted a little, as she regarded him thoughtfully, and Killian ducked his head down to concentrate on the scrap of dead rabbit in his hands. "He just wanted me to pass on the message and I have done so now. My duty is fulfilled."

He didn't reply to that and Emma seemed reasonably satisfied now her job was completed, although Killian couldn't shake the feeling she had been expecting more of a reaction from him. And the truth was that he was extremely rattled by the thought of Gold and exactly what else he could share with Emma the next time the two crossed paths.

The events of the last week or so had temporarily made Gold loom less large in Killian's thoughts but now the notion that his world could come crashing down arrived in force and it was like a kick to the gut. He quickly finished his rabbit and then offered to bury the rabbit guts for Emma, taking the basin and retreating quickly to a place far away from the farm buildings.

It was only when Henry appeared to peer at the hole he was digging and ask what he was doing that Killian relaxed a little. It was hard to listen to the worried voice in his head when Henry required an answer to every question he could possibly think of.

"So if you don't bury it, the fox might come back?"

"It might."

"But wouldn't it be better if it ate those…pieces of the rabbit, than one of the chickens. Mama got really upset about the last chicken. She'd be happy if the fox just cleaned up for us."

"She might not be happy about the flies buzzing around the rabbit entrails outside in the yard, though. And the smell. Not to mention what happens when the fox comes back the next night expecting another offering."

Henry puffed out his chest. "If I shot another rabbit then we could feed it all the…leftovers of that one. And then it'd never need to steal one of the chickens again."

"I don't think it works that way with foxes, lad," Killian replied, as gently as he could. "I think with any predator they'll take all you can give, and more besides. It's not going to change its nature and become a pet just because you feed it regularly. It'll bide its time and when you least expect it, it'll strike."

Killian shovelled some dirt into the hole he'd dug and reflected that the same could be applied to Gold.

"Well…I still think it seems a waste," Henry said, defiantly.

"Probably not as much of a waste as both of us standing around here when it's really a job for one. Here," Killian passed over the shovel. "You can finish up."

Henry looked torn between pride and indignation, but set to work and, when Killian had watched enough to ascertain that the hole would be filled in the end, he left to go back to the farm.

By the time he felt able to face Emma again without giving away the truth about his so-called business with Gold, the smell of the rabbit stew hung in the air of the little cabin and Emma looked hot and bothered standing over the stove. "I think it's nearly done," she announced over her shoulder.

Killian wasn't certain if that was an invitation to stay in the cabin and wait, or not, but he was unwilling to be alone just then and sat down at the table anyway. If it bothered Emma, she didn't say anything, more intent on poking the stew and opening up the stove to check on whatever was in there.

He rubbed at his left arm and wished that he felt able to remove the brace in Emma's presence because the bloody thing was irritating him again. Instead his dug his hook into the wood of the table and felt the weight pressing down on his shoulders until it seemed easier to just say something rather than try to hide it like he did the ruined stump of his left arm.

"We bought the farm from Mr Gold. Not outright, however. His words…they were more reminder than condolence. He'll be wanting money. What he's still owed." It wasn't everything, but it was something and it felt good to get at least that much out in the open.

"I see," was Emma's only response, along with a spoon clattering loudly as she placed it on the edge of the table.

If he expected something more from her, either reproach for not speaking earlier, or a raft of questions about what he intended to do now, neither were forthcoming. Instead there was silence, until Emma suddenly said "I should go and tell Henry it's nearly supper time."

Killian watched as Emma wiped her hands on her apron, still sporting the bloodied marks from skinning the rabbits, and walked around the table towards the door. As she passed where he was sitting, there was a tentative brush of her hand across his shoulder. Her touch was far less sure than it had been the night before when she'd washed his hair, but Killian appreciated it more for the comfort it was meant to convey.

Their meal was quite sumptuous compared to those they'd had since the chicken was finished. Henry was in good spirits again, taking most of the credit for the rabbits, and no one had the heart to tell him otherwise.

The stew warmed his belly and, perhaps, being around Emma and Henry warmed his heart, just a little. He felt, for once, less of an intruder into their world and, while not ready to count himself a member of the family just yet, he certainly felt as though he had a place there.

And he had to agree that it was better being in the cabin than lurking in the barn, as Emma had described it. So he resisted the urge to disappear when the meal was done, and accepted Emma's offer of 'coffee, or something that might be almost like it, anyway'.

Killian wasn't sure if coffee included conversation and, for a while at least, it didn't as Emma sipped from her own cup and most of the sounds seemed to be Henry clattering dishes around outside. Eventually, Emma looked over and caught his eye before looking back down at the table again. "I think," she said, her voice low and urgent. "That the best course of action is just to carry on as we have been. We'll clear the field and plant it…and whatever else needs doing. And we won't fail, because while I can expect that there may be others who will support Henry for a short time, I cannot imagine what would happen if we fail him altogether. So we won't."

That seemed to be the end of Emma's message and Killian thought that perhaps he had been correct, and she was used to giving orders, because she stood up suddenly from the table and he felt as though he'd been dismissed.

"Thank you. For the coffee." He rose from his chair and Emma watched him closely, looking as though she was about to say something else, when Henry burst back into the cabin.

"I've finished, Mama. Should I throw out the water?"

"No. Take these cups now and then you're finished." She stood and passed over the two cups they'd used, her own coffee barely touched.

Henry turned on his heel and marched back out, sighing loudly as he did so. Under other circumstances Killian might made some remark to Emma about Henry's lack of enthusiasm for his task, but right then, standing face to face with her, he was at a total loss for what to say. He couldn't make any more promises; he'd barely kept the ones he had made. He couldn't ask for further assistance from her, not when she now knew what a thin line they walked between making do and absolute poverty. And he certainly couldn't reassure her that everything would be fine, because he had very little belief that it would be.

When he'd asked her if everything she had done to get here had been worth it, he should have asked himself the same question.

But Killian was loathe to just walk out of the cabin without some sign that he still wished for an understanding with Emma and he reached over and placed his hand on hers, an almost identical brush of fingers to the one she had placed across his shoulder earlier. He hoped it sent a message she was willing to receive.

"Goodnight, Emma." He lifted his hand and turned to walk out the door.

"Goodnight."

Killian wished Henry goodnight as he passed him, and was rewarded with the boy's good-natured grumbling about his task and a request to go shooting again the next day. "I suppose so…assuming your mother doesn't have any other plans for you."

"Well, maybe you can ask her?"

"Um…" Killian glanced at the door of the cabin, the conversation having made him realise that the shotgun was still inside where he'd left it. He had little appetite to go back however. It would wait until tomorrow, and perhaps he would take Henry out again. "Maybe. Goodnight, Henry."

"'Night, Mr Jones."

The hut was empty and cold after the warmth of the cabin and Killian would have drunk considerably more whiskey in order to warm up if there hadn't been only a few mouthfuls left in the bottle. He had no idea when he'd be able to get more, either. It wasn't only the cost that was prohibitive but the whole notion of going anywhere near the saloon was less than appealing.

Feeling dissatisfied about almost everything, but incapable of figuring out any ways to change the situation he was in, he removed lay on the bed and closed his eyes. Perhaps it would have been better if he had simply left the situation as was, if he had never attempted any ill-fated courtship of Emma, perhaps he should have accepted that all she wanted from him was a place to live and a reason to keep Henry by her side until he was grown. He wasn't anything to her really, but a means to an end.

But her presence on the farm had, for the first time in a long time, given him the notion that there was hope for something more in his life. And now that he felt that hope slipping away he was worried that the only thing to take its place would be the black void of nothingness he'd been running from for far too long.

Killian never expected sleep to find him, not when his mind jumped from one trouble to another in an almost-dizzying blur that left him feeling oddly seasick. But clearly he had succumbed because the noise in the yard woke him with a start.

His brain felt thick and heavy and finding his senses fully was like climbing out of a tar-pit. At first he assumed that the fox was back and realised that he would have to go and find out if it was near the chicken coop. Then the shuffling grew closer to the hut and he felt suddenly more awake, concerned that Emma was seeking him out and worried that he would fail whatever test she was setting next simply by being asleep.

He stood up, a little groggily, and briefly wondered about re-attaching his brace and hook but couldn't face the discomfort nor the delay in presenting himself. Instead he ran a hand through his hair, then down the sleeve that fell below his stump and opened the door to the hut, only to be met with a blow to the stomach that sent him, doubled over in pain, crumpling to the ground.

His first thought was that it surely wasn't meant to happen, that Emma had somehow mistaken his identity and lashed out to protect herself. But it wasn't Emma who grabbed him, roughly, by his good arm pinning it behind his back. And it certainly wasn't Emma's foul-breathed mutter of "Just keep quiet and this'll be over soon," in his ear as he was jerked around, his knees scrabbling to keep him somewhat upright on the dirt.

His bad arm was captured as well, the shoulder wrenched painfully in the process. Killian tried shaking his captor loose, but to no avail. He briefly considered pitching forward and sending them both to the ground in the hope that he could break free and run for it, but another voice spoke in the dark and asked "So what do we do now?" and he realised there was little chance of escape when he was out-numbered and at such a disadvantage. Perhaps the best thing to do was simply keep quiet and hope it was over soon; it wouldn't be the first time he'd had to take a beating, after all.

More to the point if they were occupied with him, they weren't roaming around the farm looking for anything else, or anyone else. The last thing he needed was for them to discover the existence of the cabin on the other side of the yard, and the boy and woman sleeping inside.

No, better they do what they'd come to do, and leave. And it was obvious why they were here, even before the one holding him hissed "Mr Gold wanted to make sure you received his condolences," prior to the other man, only barely glimpsed in the darkness, landing a fist against his cheek.

The pain bloomed under his eye, but he moved his jaw and judged nothing to be broken. It wasn't the worst blow he'd ever suffered and he was tempted to say as much, to taunt his attacker and goad him into more violence. But he stayed silent, still uncertain of the other man's prowess and unwilling to risk being laid out completely and leaving Emma and Henry at the mercy of the men Gold had sent.

His assailant was all too willing to try again, anyway, and there were several more blows to his face in quick succession. Killian's mouth filled with the bitter taste of his own blood, and his eye became almost impossible to open, swollen and bruised. He grit his teeth however, and hoped there wouldn't be too much more coming his way before they considered their duty discharged and left the farm, at which time he would be free to crawl back into the hut and wait for morning.

He'd had these reminders before, although they weren't so much about the money owed as everything else that happened. About Milah's death and the mistakes he'd made after that. About letting him know that he was never going to be free of any of it, that he was stuck with Gold now until the day he died.

The man who'd been hitting him stopped, sounding a little puffed. "Is this all we're supposed to do?" he asked his companion. "Just hit him?"

"Apparently so," the other voice drawled behind him, and the grip on his arms tightened. "That fellow in the saloon said just come on up here, beat on him a little, leave the woman and the kid, and then head on back and he'd make it worth our while."

"Well…I don't know. Is it gonna make a difference if we leave the woman?" I mean, he's a cripple right? He can't do much."

Killian felt a knot of fear tighten in his belly. "Don't touch her," he warned, although he didn't want to even speak about Emma in front of these two brutes. It was bad enough that they knew she existed, but warning them off might just make the prospect of finding her all the more appealing. If he hadn't had a reason for wishing Gold dead before, he certainly did now. Why the hell had he even mentioned Emma to them in the first place?

"I don't know if it's a good idea," the man holding him said. "I reckon we've done what we came for, and we could just leave now."

"But those women at the saloon seem awful snooty for whores and I don't know if I want to spend my money on the likes of them that'll sneer at me." He could hear the footsteps of the other fellow, shuffling around and possibly heading over to the cabin. Killian pulled against the arms holding him but couldn't shift them. He felt giddy with desperation and fear, but was unwilling to yell a warning to Emma. There was still a chance they might leave or they might get sloppy and let him go. He wasn't entirely certain what he'd do. Maybe try to grab the shotgun.

But it was in the cabin. And he'd be damned if he'd lead them in that direction.

"You want to knock him out?" his captor said evenly, as though they were discussing what to have for dinner.

"What I want is to get this over with because my hand goddamned hurts and I think I could be doing something better with my time." Killian was about to make a last ditch attempt to talk them out of whatever it was they were planning with Emma, but the man in front of him, clearly losing patience with the situation, landed a swift and unexpected kick in his side, and the only sound he made was a grunt of pain.

"Warn me if you're gonna do that again. Makes it hard to hold him."

"Really? It's so goddamned hard to hold a cripple. Switch places then, and you see what you can do with him. Maybe we should take out his other hand or somethin'. That'll sure make him remember we was here."

Killian felt the man's boot connect with his side again, but he had stopped trying to make out where the man was and what he was about to do because far off, near the dark shape that had to be the cabin he'd spied a light heading in their direction.

He fervently wished that Emma would just stay put, but there wasn't any way to warn her without giving the game away. As far as he could tell both men were behind him now, still struggling with the decision over who held him down and who found a hammer. And while the thought of such an instrument being used on his only hand filled him with cold dread, the thought of these two coming into contact with Emma scared him even more.

"Listen," he said, twisting his head to look over his shoulder. "Perhaps if you'll let me up I could show you where the bloody hammer is."

"No, we ain't doing that," the man who'd been hitting him said, and then Killian felt the other man's grip on his arms tighten as the light drew closer and they realised they were no longer alone.

He turned back around to see Emma, ghostly and pale in her nightdress, come to a stop a few feet away. She placed the lantern carefully on the ground and Killian realised it wasn't the only thing she'd brought with her when she levelled the shotgun at the men standing behind him.

"Leave. Now." Emma's voice was cold and clear and for a moment there was silence and Killian could only hope the men would actually do as she'd asked. But the one who seemed to be the ringleader of the two took a few steps forward, so he was standing slightly in front.

"Well, we ain't ready to leave yet. We might have something else planned for your man here, unless you want us to come spend time with you."

"No. I want you to leave him alone, like I've asked."

"Well…I don't know, darlin'" the man made a great show of being thoughtful, turning around to grin at his companion. He was enjoying this far too much, and all Killian could think was that the longer it all got drawn out, the more danger there was for Emma. She couldn't possibly do much against the two men, and Killian wasn't even completely certain she'd pull the trigger if required. And the man still twisting his arms painfully behind his back seemed awfully strong. Killian struggled again, but only found himself pitched forward, face pressed into the dirt for his troubles.

"We was told to leave the woman," the man currently holding him down grumbled. "Now it's all going to shit."

His companion ignored him, now far more preoccupied with goading Emma. "As you can see," the man standing by his head said, his boots crunching far too close to Killian's face for comfort. "We ain't finished with him yet. Maybe we need him for a while longer." With that he swiftly kicked Killian in the side again, the dull thud of the boot connecting with his already bruised flesh prompting him to yelp with pain at the contact.

"But  _I_  need him, so let him go."

Killian couldn't see Emma's face from his position in the dirt, the man's weight pressing heavily on his back and legs, but he could hear the indignation in her voice. Ordinarily he might have been pleased to provoke such a vehement statement of his own importance from Emma, but he was far more preoccupied with the man stepping past his head and closer to her.

Clearly Emma was less than pleased with his movements as well, as Killian heard her say "I think you forget I have a gun."

"But there's only one of you and two of us." The boots stepped a little farther away from his face and closer to Emma. Killian managed to lift his head and tried, again, to shake the other man off his back, but, although his grip had loosened while he'd been watching Emma and his friend, he was still clearly unwilling to admit defeat and let Killian go.

"I can quite easily shoot one of you. Do you really want to take the chance that it won't be you? I'm warning you; let him go and leave."

Killian could hold his tongue no longer, worried that the man would get too close to Emma and simply take the one thing she had to threaten him with from her hands, he called out "Just do as she bloody…" but the sentence was cut short by the loud crack of the gun going off and the shout of the man as its target was found, followed by a thud as he crumpled to the ground in front of Killian.

"Jesus Christ! You shot me! You  _unnatural_  whoring cunt, you fucking shot me."

"I warned you," Emma said, in a voice that sounded far calmer than Killian himself felt. He wasn't exactly certain how much distance there was between Emma and the man she'd shot, and whether he was still a threat. Pushing up with his shoulder Killian again attempted to get up on his knees for a clearer view with no success.

"For God's sake, let him up." Emma's voice held the same note of exasperation that might be directed at Henry when the boy wanted to argue about the necessity of some chore she'd set him.

Killian suddenly felt himself dragged upwards by his arms until he was kneeling and he was finally able to get a better look at the scene in front of him. The man Emma had shot was clearly visible, half-sitting and half-laying on the ground, grasping at a bloodied patch on his trousers, just above the knee.

Emma was less well-illuminated, having stepped away from the man, and, as a result, the lamplight. But he could still make out her shape and the outline of the gun as she aimed it somewhere above his head and he felt a little better for knowing she wasn't in immediate danger.

"Now you take your friend and go," Emma instructed, but the man behind him didn't move for a moment.

The friend in question hissed "Don't listen to that bitch," and Killian couldn't help but wish the man had been injured in a way that would prevent him speaking again.

"And you'll just let us go?" the man holding him asked, sounding thoughtful.

"Yes. You let him go, I'll let you go."

The hands that were pulling him back and up suddenly disappeared and, as much as Killian had thought his first instinct would be to attempt retribution he instead slumped back down, feeling suddenly drained by the whole experience.

He watched as the man who'd held him, quite clearly the larger of the two, carefully stepped around the side of him, and towards his friend. From Killian's point of view, the man's eyes never left Emma, no doubt evaluating whether she was still likely to shoot.

A part of Killian wished she would. It had all been a rather humiliating and painful experience and he wouldn't be displeased at the thought of there being some retribution doled out. But it would be a reckless manoeuvre when it appeared that the man was, indeed, helping his companion to his feet so they could depart.

The injured man was a lot quieter now, loss of blood forcing him to hold his tongue where Emma's threats had not. Still he mustered enough strength to spit in Emma's direction as he found his feet, one last indication of exactly what he thought of the woman who'd shot him.

But he was far from his target, and Emma's only response was to hold the gun, now pointed at both men, a little higher before saying "Go."

She watched them head back around the barn, and, hopefully, off the property before her eyes drifted in Killian's direction. "Are you alright?"

"I will…live, no doubt…" he might have said something else, might have thanked her for coming to his aide, but just then a rather hesitant voice rang out through the dark.

"Mama?"

"Oh, hell! Henry," Emma muttered, half to herself. "Wait! I'll be back…just, uh…wait…" With that she disappeared into the darkness, the white of her nightgown becoming nothing more than a grey blur in the distance where he could hear her murmuring reassuringly to Henry.

It was probably far too much to expect that she might come back and do the same to him. No doubt she would decide that, given the fact he was hardly at death's door, that he could quite conceivably look after himself. More to the point he believed that, despite her protests to the men about how much she needed him, she'd find him quite dispensable now she realised just what danger he could place them all in.

He'd had a hell of a night and ended up arse down in the dirt, bloodied and beaten and now, to cap it all, he would have to face Emma's anger. And though he'd never expected much fairness from life, he felt particularly disappointed by the fact he wasn't allowed to even have just that one thing, just the idea of being on Emma's side, even if it was only pretence, really, even if it all came crashing down in a week, or a day, even if she never really loved him he had wanted, just for a little while, for her to think that they were united in this, that he could really be counted on.

But it wasn't to be.

Killian hauled himself up to a standing position, his body protesting as he did so, and then noticed that Emma had left the lamp standing in the yard. He swept it up in his good hand, and took it with him into the hut. A drink would have been even more welcome than it had been earlier in the evening, but there was still nothing he could do about that.

Instead he extinguished the lamp and thought about lighting a candle in its place, with the notion that he should clean himself up. There was no way he could completely hide how battered and bruised he now was from Henry and he wondered what on earth Emma had told the boy about the sounds he'd no doubt heard in the night.

But somehow Killian couldn't find it in himself to expend the necessary energy to attempt any sort of clean up. He was tired, and he ached in more ways than one. The throbbing pain in his face and his side matched a no less painful feeling in his heart when he thought about what he'd nearly cost them all.

The candle remained unlit and all Killian could do was sit in the dark and go over it in his mind, letting himself wonder if he could have done something differently. Been quicker to catch on as he left the hut, sent the men packing before Emma had even known they were here.

Never got himself entangled with Gold in the first place.

The scrape of the door pulled him from his reverie and he was on his feet and ready to confront whoever it was this time, when Emma hissed "Good God, why is it so dark in here?"

"I'll…here," Killian reached for the tinderbox on the chest and lit the candle, only taking two attempts as he struggled to get the match to light. He wasn't certain if his agitation was due to the fact he had only moments ago been expecting another attack, or the unexpected presence of Emma in the hut. Either way, he wasn't displeased when he turned to face her and she held a bottle out towards him.

"I thought you could use this."

He took it from her hand and examined it. "Brandy?"

"I brought it with me…in my trunk." She shrugged. "I was told to bring whatever I might think was…necessary."

"Very good advice."

"I'm not entirely certain it was what your brother had in mind, but I'm certain that I could use a drink, so…well, let me." Emma took the bottle back from his hands and removed the stopper, before gulping back a large mouthful and passing it over.

Killian took his own mouthful. "That is…not all that bad." He had been expecting something rough and raw, but this was smooth and pleasant as it travelled down his throat.

"I, um…it was in Regina's house before we came and I supposed it wouldn't be missed." She nodded to herself and pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. "Are you alright?"

"I am…well, I will be, fine. I'll live at any rate." Killian sat back down on the bed and took another drink. She was right, the brandy was most welcome.

Emma's concern over him was confusing however. He wanted to think that she genuinely cared, but he almost didn't let himself hope. And everything was mixed with the shame that the men had been there in the first place.

"How is Henry?" he asked.

"He is asleep again. I thought I might have to give him some brandy…just to make sure. But he found rest surprisingly quickly."

"What did you, uh…what was your explanation? Of what he heard?"

"I simply said that those men were a little lost and had come to get directions, after they heard me shoot at the fox. It's late and it's the best I could come up with." She didn't say that the truth would have simply made Henry uneasy in his own bed, but Killian could figure that out for himself.

"I don't know what I'll be able to say about your face though," she said. "I think…let's get that cleaned up."

"No. No. I can do it." He was embarrassed by the attention, by requiring it in the first place and by the fact that no doubt half her response was due to the fact she believed him incapable of caring for himself. He placed the brandy on the floor by his feet and, instinctively, smoothed his hand down his left sleeve, checking it was in place and the mangled stump wasn't visible. Even in the rather pitiful candlelight he still didn't think it was something Emma needed to see.

She was occupied now, anyway, pouring water from the jug into the basin and looking around, Killian supposed, for something to use as a cloth. In the end she pulled a handkerchief from somewhere in the neckline of her nightdress, a movement that flashed before him far too quickly for Killian's liking, and proceeded to dip it into the water before pressing it against his eye.

"Ow."

"Well…it's not going to help much anyway. I just want to get rid of the blood so you're not caked with it when Henry comes in in the morning to tell you all the terrible jobs I have set him."

Killian smiled, even though it hurt. "You seem to understand Henry quite well."

"I do, and while the worst thing he has to complain about is being sent to get kindling when he should be milking the cows I think that perhaps the life I have given him is not that bad."

"But nights like this make you wonder?" Killian knew it was reckless to ask her thoughts on the matter of their safety, but he was nothing if not a masochist at times.

"Nights like this are awful," she said, a slight hitch in her voice telling Killian that perhaps she wasn't as composed as she appeared to be. "But as I've said before, I dislike the idea of being bullied in that way. I refuse to let someone just come here and take what's mine."

With that rather vehement statement, Emma re-wet the handkerchief and then sat on the bed next to him, once again taking up work on his face.

It was a lost cause, though. No amount of cautious dabbing would remove the stain of what he'd done and he felt suddenly as though this was all wrong. Emma's concern, her gentle touch; he simply didn't deserve any of it. He wanted her to tell him exactly what she thought of him, he wanted it all out in the open.

"And I am what's yours? As the chickens are? Or, tell me, am I less useful than they? Perhaps only to be counted on occasionally when you need an escort for church or another rabbit or someone who can remind Henry how to persuade the cows to stand where they bloody well should?"

Killian wasn't entirely sure where the anger that tainted his words had bubbled up from. And even in such a mood he wasn't fool enough to admit that it was on his account that the men had come to the farm. Still, he wanted Emma to state, outright, that he was a means to an end, useful at her pleasure and there to be commanded at will.

It was frustrating when all she did was brush his words away with a small flick of her hand. "I don't for a moment consider you in the same league as the chickens."

"Hmm. Well, it's hardly obvious.  _Darling_." He knew he could only expect the worst from such provocative statements, but was too far past the point of caring. He wanted some kind of a reaction from her, even if it was only her ire.

And when he saw a flash of something in her eyes, the green of her gaze burning almost gold in the candlelight, he felt elation for just a moment. "I think you can be safe in the knowledge that I care a great deal more for you than I do for the chickens."

"Care is it now?"

"Well, I did shoot someone tonight. In your defence. I can honestly say that's the first time I've been called on to perform that task." Emma's hand dropped from his face although she leant a little closer now, his gaze drawn to her lips as she spoke.

"And yet, still, I find it hard to think on that as a sign of caring. More of protecting your property rights." Just as Emma had done a moment earlier, he leaned closer towards his opponent, his words meant as a direct provocation.

But while he had been expecting to provoke some violent reaction from her, he had thought that he would bear the brunt of Emma's sharp tongue, that she would finally tell him what a disappointment as a husband he had been and that she had hated every moment she'd been tied to him.

He was momentarily surprised when it looked as though she was about to resort to a more physical demonstration of her displeasure, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him towards her. It was only when he felt her lips press against his that he realised he'd provoked something entirely different.

Different and certainly pleasurable. There was nothing tentative in the way she pressed her mouths to his, it was utterly unlike the hesitant touch of her lips to his cheek that she'd offered before.

After the initial shock of the contact he relaxed a little more towards Emma, his hand drifting to the back of her head as his mouth opened against hers, the quick swipe of her tongue in response indicating that she was far from unhappy with this development.

Everything in that moment was Emma. Killian forgot about his bruised eye and cut lip, the pain barely registering now that he had what he'd wanted for so long. Although there was a part of his mind that remained unsatisfied, that thought about pulling Emma onto his lap, or pressing her down on the bed, anything so that he could touch more of her. Despite his fatigue and the earlier beating his desire for her raged through his body and he was desperate to quell it.

He ignored those thoughts, wary of spoiling what he did have. And Emma, with her mouth open, hot and hungry against his, was a true marvel. She pulled away, breathing deeply, but he wasn't ready to part with her just yet and this time it was Killian who surged forward, his mouth finding hers, her hands on his shoulders now, fingers stroking through the fabric of his shirt.

And then, suddenly, it was over and she was gone and his mind couldn't think beyond the loss he felt.  _Emma_.

"I'm…sorry," she ventured, her eyes on his lips. No, he realised, on the cut she thought she had made worse.

"I'm fine, love. It's just a scratch." He watched though as, instead of coming back to him as he hoped, she pulled further away.

"No. I mean, I shouldn't have…I can't…I need to get back to Henry." Emma stood up, quickly, and Killian's mind raced, struggling to figure out what may have caused the sudden change in mood.

"Emma…"

"I'm not…" She stopped in her tracks and looked back over her shoulder at him. "I need to go."

"Emma. I want us to be on the same side. Don't shut me out."

She gave a small nod, and then she was gone, leaving behind the brandy and her handkerchief. Killian wasn't entirely certain which one he'd be more thankful for. Perhaps it was neither of them, and she'd left him with something more important. Because she cared for him. She hadn't said so in words; that clearly wasn't something Emma did. But she'd shown him, for one brief moment. And she might find reasons to hate him in the morning, he may yet fail in his promises to her. But he would always have that one moment when she kissed him simply because she wanted to.

He'd nearly fallen back, into the depths of despair that always trailed behind him, but Emma had come and she'd given him back the one thing he craved so badly.

Hope. Hope that one day she might truly be his.

**Thanks for reading!**


	16. Chapter 16

To say it took Emma a long time to fall asleep that night would have been an understatement.  The unexpected intrusion of the two men, the danger they’d all been in was second in Emma’s mind to her encounter with Killian in his hut.

Emma simply couldn’t decide if what she’d done qualified as smart or stupid and the worst part was that she knew full well that agonising over her actions long after she’d committed them was a futile exercise.  The time for thinking had been before she’d pressed her lips to Killian’s, but she’d been angry and confused and, most of all, relieved that he had escaped the attack without further injury.

And she had, somewhat recklessly, let that feeling bleed into her actions.  It was foolish, and a course of action befitting someone with far less experience of the harsh realities of the world than Emma herself did.  But there was no denying one fact, it had felt good to kiss Killian.

Allowing herself to take a little pleasure in the memory of that moment, Emma had attempted sleep, only to find all chance of rest destroyed by an errant thought that suddenly loomed large in her mind and eclipsed any worries over her own emotional state or that of Killian.

Who exactly had told those men to leave the woman?

Emma had had some notion that the men were, perhaps, not unknown to Killian.  But this recollection set her thoughts in a spin, worry filling her mind almost to over-flowing.  Was she even safe in her own bed now?

Were any of them?  Emma managed to quell the desire to go and check on Killian because she felt that perhaps her instincts were not to satisfy herself of his well-being, so much as to seek him out for her own comfort.  And, kiss or no kiss, Emma was not quite prepared to lay bare her own needs so completely.

She did, however, sneak out of bed to where Henry still, miraculously, slumbered.  Watching her son’s chest rise and fall brought Emma only a fraction of the peace it normally did, but it was enough that she was able to return to her own bed and doze, fitfully.  Her rest lasted only until the birds woke for the morning and Emma, now groggy-headed but still determined, rose as well.

Her most important task was to confront Killian about the men.  At least, that was her over-riding thought as she tip-toed past Henry’s still slumbering form.   She needed answers and she needed them _now_ , before she let her emotions get the better of her again.

But she reached the hut and hesitated, unsure of whether to knock or simply enter unannounced.  In the end the decision was made for her because the door opened and Killian stepped out, and then stopped short when he realised that Emma was standing right there.

All of a sudden her interest was not so consumed by the remembered words from the night before, but by the state of Killian’s bruised and battered face.  Emma lifted a hand, thinking perhaps to touch his eye, before dropping it suddenly.

Now was _not_ the time.

“Are you alright, Emma?” Killian asked, sounding concerned and merely, to Emma’s mind, emphasising how remiss she had been in not immediately checking on his own welfare.  The unspoken rules of polite social interaction had never been one of Emma’s strong suits and she found that she couldn’t help but feel lacking, even as her own concerns pressed her to move the conversation forward.

_Who had sent those men?_

“I am as well as can be expected,” she said, twisting her hands in front of her.  “And you are?  Your face, does it hurt still?”

“Yes, but I find it doesn’t matter so much, now that you’re here.”  Killian managed a smile, a rather twisted and painful looking one, and he stepped closer and for a moment Emma thought he might attempt to kiss her, and, for an even briefer moment, she wanted him to, but she collected herself in time and remembered her errand.

“Who were those men?”

The smile on Killian’s face rapidly disappeared, although he shook his head and looked down at the ground.  “I’m afraid I have no idea.”

“But you know what they wanted?”

Killian lifted his eyes to hers and, to Emma’s mind at least, he seemed to be considering just how much to tell her.  Or perhaps she was being overly suspicious and it was merely the case that his swollen eye gave him the appearance of eyeing her thoughtfully.

It irked Emma that she had to doubt her own mind in this fashion, but she simply didn’t know enough about Mr Jones…Killian…whoever he wanted to be to her, to properly evaluate what was going on.  The men who’d come here, who’d beaten him so thoroughly suggested that all was perhaps not as it seemed at the farm.  The last week or so, the time she’d spent trying to make a home, clearing a field, planning a future, had that merely been in vain?

“I have my suspicions,” Killian said, darkly.

“And would you care to share them with me?”

If Killian would have let her in on whatever secrets he was keeping at that moment, Emma would never find out because his eyes flicked past her shoulder and she turned to see a yawning Henry walk into the yard.

Silence fell between them as they watched Henry approach, his eyes growing wide as he took in Killian’s face.  “I wasn’t sure, Mama.  When I woke up, I thought I dreamed all those things that happened last night.  But I heard them!”

“Yes.  That was, unfortunate,” Emma said, as Henry studied Killian’s face carefully and Killian shrank back under the boy’s scrutiny.

“I thought…was there a fox?” Henry asked.

“Yes,” Emma replied quickly.

“But what happened to Mr Jones?  And where did the other people come from?  I don’t understand.”  Henry’s words were not just tinged with confusion, but with worry as well.  Emma wished they could go back to the time when his morning’s complaints centred on missed opportunities for fox-hunting in the night.  Now her son was faced with the same fears she was, and there was no certainty that she could allay them.

Not when she had not yet reached the heart of the matter concerning Mr Jones and those men.

“It was a simple misunderstanding, lad,” Killian said.  “The men had mistaken this farm for somewhere else, and they were surprised to find people here.”

“So…they hit you?”

“Aye.”

“But…”  Henry turned to Emma and she shook her head quickly, trying to cut off his line of questioning.

“I think really that’s enough explanation for now, Henry.  It was all a…a…terrible misunderstanding in the dark which absolutely will not happen again.”  Emma glanced at Killian as she said that, but he would not meet her eye.

Her heart sank a little lower.  “Now, I think it’s time to get started on the chores,” Emma continued, briskly.  “Henry, you go and help Mr Jones with the cows.”

“Mama…”

“I said go.  I can’t stand about here any longer or there won’t be breakfast.”  Out of the corner of her eye she watched as Killian stepped carefully around her and walked towards the barn without saying anything.  She felt a rising tide of sheer annoyance at the fact that she still had not had a straight answer from him and it didn’t appear as though she was about to this side of breakfast.

“But…” Henry started and Emma, wary of letting her tongue loose at the moment, merely gave him a look which she hoped would convey her fervent desire that he refrain from asking any more questions.  Clearly it had the desired effect as Henry’s mouth clamped shut and he scuttled off in the direction of the barn.

Emma headed for the cabin, ready to take her frustrations out on the stove instead of any living person.  Still, even the ensuing battle over breakfast didn’t quell her bad mood and Mr Jones found it difficult to meet her pointed looks across the table, something Emma didn’t think could be attributed solely to the fact that he was sporting a bruised eye.

Henry was silent as well, and Emma felt a pang of guilt for having scared the natural curiosity out of the boy, but she told herself that curiosity killed the cat and until she knew what they were dealing with it was better, perhaps, that he remain quiet and docile.  Still, when he lifted his eyes to hers and she saw the worry reflected there she wondered if perhaps it might be better to get it all out in the open.

Henry didn’t venture to ask anything further, and he was still subdued as he bid Emma goodbye before setting off to school.  She wanted to reassure him that things would be better when he returned, but didn’t dare to offer false hope.

And hope was all she had to offer herself really, and she attempted to locate Mr Jones with the aim of finishing their earlier conversation.  Fearful he had begun work in the far field in an attempt to escape her, Emma half-walked, half-ran into the barn and nearly collided with him as he stood, contemplating the place where their hoes rested.

Mr Jones put out a hand to steady her, but she moved her arm swiftly and let it fall against her side.  She didn’t bother seeing what reaction that provoked, if he was distressed by it, then so be it.

Her own reactions to his presence were troubling enough for one mind.

“Good,” she said, a little breathlessly.  “You have not yet left.”

This time she did bother to check Mr Jones’ reaction and saw, she thought, a note of concern in the way his brow furrowed.  “You think I would leave you?”

“I mean you have not yet set out to work.”  Emma should have been content with that, with the statement that cleared up her intentions.  But she was frustrated and growing increasingly angry with herself and those around her and her voice, when she next spoke, sounded shrill and peevish.  “I should hope after last night that you realise I would hardly be in peril if you are not around.”

“Ah, so my absence could be withstood?” 

Emma was in no mood for this constant prodding by Mr Jones.  It had worked the night before, after the heat of the battle she had been weakened and had cracked under his pushing.  This time she would not be so brittle.

“Up to a point, but I am still at a loss as to explain why those men deemed your absence so important.”  Her tone was brisk and she watched as Mr Jones’ back straightened at her question.  She wasn’t certain what she found the most irritating right then; the sight of the way her words affected him, or the fact that she felt so guilty for saying them in the first place.

“You know what I am, Henry himself said it the other night.  It’s hardly the first time it has happened to me, for no apparent reason other than I exist,” Mr Jones said indignantly.

“And you think you are the first person beaten for simply existing?  Or saying the wrong thing?  Or too little?  Believe me I know exactly what that looks like and it does not come in the form of men instructed to leave the woman.”

Mr Jones looked at her sharply, but Emma dropped her eyes.  She didn’t want his pity, she wanted answers.  She wanted to understand the problem and fix it, once and for all.

She wanted to feel safe; and if that wasn’t something Mr Jones could offer her, then she’d find safety on her own.

“It would be a message.  From Mr Gold.”  Mr Jones paused, and sighed heavily.  Emma risked a glance in his direction to see his posture had slumped and the fight seemed to have gone out of him now.  “I told you that we…I…still owe him money for the farm, and this…this was his way of reminding me that he hadn’t forgotten the debt.”

Emma considered that response.  On the surface it sounded plausible, and yet, there was something that plucked at her mind.  The violence wrought by those two men, it seemed to speak of something greater than just a monetary debt.

“But surely it is hardly good business sense to injure you to the point where you are no longer able to work the farm and earn the money to repay Mr Gold?  If he is that desperate for the debt to be paid then this seems the wrong way to achieve his aims.”

Mr Jones didn’t reply immediately; he merely avoided her gaze and his hand reached up to scratch at the back of his head. 

His silence spoke volumes, but Emma still felt pressed to voice her thoughts out loud.  “To me, it appears a personal matter.”

“That would not be so far from the truth,” Mr Jones said, quietly. His body twisted slightly, and Emma watched as he shuffled his feet and, for a moment, she wondered if he might try to simply flee the scene again and whether she would have to block his escape. 

Fearful that scenario might play out Emma took a step towards him, but immediately understood that she had misjudged the situation when Mr Jones looked at her curiously and she realised just how close their bodies were now.  Deciding to make the best of it, she reached out a hand and, tentatively, laid it on Mr Jones’ forearm in, what she hoped, was a gesture of comfort.

The fact she that she also hoped the comfort might loosen his tongue was an added benefit, she decided, as her mind scrambled to justify her actions.

“Please,” Emma asked.  “I need to understand whatever…this is, what makes men like that turn up in the middle of the night and act so violently?”

She watched him carefully and could almost see him fighting his instincts to hide or perhaps distort the truth again.  But then he glanced down at where her hand lay on his sleeve and she felt him relax beneath her touch.

It was frightening and slightly exhilarating to realise that she might be able to have that effect on Mr Jones.

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Mr Jones didn’t speak; the only sounds in the barn were the rustling of the cows and Emma wondered if she might have to ask again but he appeared to shake off his reverie and said, somewhat quietly, “I am not sure any of this is understandable.”

“Surely that will be for me to decide?”

“I suppose.  It was…there was…  Mr Gold, he had a wife.  Milah.”  Mr Jones paused and Emma waited to see what he would divulge next, although she had her suspicions about what his story might entail.

“It was an ill-advised liaison, on both our parts, and we were, perhaps, a little reckless towards the end,” he continued, twisting away so that Emma’s hand fell from his arm and she fought down the urge to reach out again.  “And we paid the price for that.”

Emma considered his words, and recalled the people who had been present in the church she and Henry had attended.  “Mrs Gold is no longer here.”

“Milah is dead.  It was…I swear, it was an accident.  I just…I should have checked that the horses were secure before I left them…”  Mr Jones’ words came to a halt, suddenly, and then he swiped a tongue across his lips and continued on, his voice a little calmer this time around.

“I had stopped to speak with her maid; as reckless as we may have been we were not so ill-advised as to broadcast our relationship to the whole town.  I was about to leave, when I heard the shouting and I just remember trying to stop it happening, and I must have got a hand to the harness, but the horses had sped up by then, with the cart still attached, and I couldn’t do anything and by the time I was shaken free, they’d trampled Milah and…well, there was nothing they could do for me.  The hand had been twisted in the harness, and it was ruined.  Or at least that’s what they tell me.  I don’t know.  And I never got to say goodbye, or tell her I’m sorry.  It was…I lost everything.  And yet, I’m still paying for it.”

Mr Jones glanced over at Emma and, while she wasn’t surprised to see him looking so sad given the tale he’d just spilled, she was a little taken aback by her own reaction to the sight.  It hurt her, she realised, to see someone, to see Mr Jones…Killian, in that much pain.  To know that she was the one who’d made him remember in the first place.

But she steeled herself for the task ahead; messy personal history or not, she couldn’t risk a repeat of the previous night’s attack and if that meant trampling all over Mr Jones’ pride in the process, then that’s the price she’d have to pay.

“Well, then.  There is only one course of action that I can see,” Emma said, briskly, wiping her hands on her apron as she did so.

"Is there?" Mr Jones inquired, and Emma pretended that she couldn't hear the trepidation in his voice.

"Yes. We need to settle the debt and remove any legitimate excuse for Mr Gold to hound you in such a manner."

Mr Jones seemed somewhat dumbstruck at her words; whatever he was expecting her to propose, it appeared that it was something quite different.

It suddenly occurred to Emma that he most likely thought she would flee; take Henry and leave him to face the rather messy consequences of his own actions.  She was torn between feeling pleased that he appeared to be relieved now he knew she would stay, and embarrassed that it was never really a choice.  She had nowhere else to go, after all, and her investment in the new life she promised Henry, in the farm, the marriage, even in Mr Jones himself, was something that she had to protect at all costs.

She had never in her life had quite so much to lose before and the responsibility loomed large as it swept up all in its path.  If she needed to fix this, to bail Mr Jones out of the debt, then that is merely a part of her over-riding aim in keeping Henry safe from harm.

At least that is what she told herself.

Mr Jones, however, seemed less certain about her aims.  “How?” he asked, quietly, almost as though he was afraid of the answer.

“I have a few…items that have value.  Mr Gold, he has a pawnbroker’s, does he not?  Perhaps if I offer them in exchange, they will be sufficient.”  Emma murmured the words, cautious not to give too much away.

She knew deep down that the man wasn't simple and must surely understand that a woman so desperate to stay on this farm had hardly come by her valuable items honestly, but she stopped short of admitting outright that she had stolen most everything from Regina. 

And maybe it was deeply unfair that she had pushed Mr Jones to lay bare some of the ugly truths of his past when she was so determined to hide her own, but Emma felt that she had greater priorities at that moment than ensuring Mr Jones would not cry foul.

“I don’t want…” Mr Jones started to say, but Emma had set the plan in her mind now and wasn’t in the mood to listen to his entreaties.

“It doesn’t really matter what you want, the point is we have no choice.”

Mr Jones blanched a little at the harshness in her voice, and Emma regretted sounding quite so abrupt.  But apologies seemed a little out of place and she could think of no other way of making amends.

Instead, she turned on her heel and started walking towards the cabin, set on locating the things she would take to sell.  She wasn’t going to dwell on what this meant, that selling everything she had of value would leave her no way of getting away with Henry should anything worse befall them.  It was absolutely imperative that this all work out.

If Mr Jones knew the turmoil her mind was in, then he gave no sign as he silently watched her leave.  Fuelled by a sense of purpose, Emma strode quickly across to the cabin and stepped straight into the little bedroom, opening her trunk and rifling around inside.  When she had found the things she was looking for, she carried them through to the table, only to find Mr Jones waiting in the cabin for her, the sound of his arrival no doubt masked by the sounds of her search.

Emma has almost forgotten about him in her haste to find what she needed and, for a moment at least, they stood silently on opposite sides of the table.  Emma wondered if he was waiting for an apology on her part, but she didn’t know what on earth she could say now.  Instead she started a more business-like discussion.

“I have these.”  She laid everything on the table.  There are the in-laid tray she had used a couple of times, plus Regina’s best tablecloth, a pair of silver candlesticks and the watch that made a lump rise in the back of her throat every time she looked at it.

It was supposed to be her insurance or, more importantly, Henry’s legacy.  It was all she had left from Henry’s father and, while the circumstances in which it arrived in her possession were ones she’d never divulge to her son, she still intended him to have the benefit from it one day.

That it had to be sold now was a little galling, whatever security in this place it might buy them.  Once it was gone, that was it, there would be no more opportunities to own such an item again. 

Emma surveyed the things on the table and then looked over at Mr Jones, who was eyeing them curiously.  She wanted to say that if he was expecting them to show some account of her life to date, then he would be sorely mistaken; these are merely things.

But she held her tongue, remembering his earlier, somewhat painful confessions, and allowed Mr Jones this moment.  It wasn’t as though she hadn’t been a little disingenuous with Mr Jones all along; this pretence will surely not hurt anyone.  Besides, it was one thing to assume he could divine the way in which she had acquired these items, it was still another matter altogether to blurt out the truth.

“These were from your Aunt Regina?” he asked, a little hesitantly, as he picked up one of the candlesticks to look at it further. 

“For the most part,” Emma replied, cautiously. 

“She was generous to you.”

“She did love Henry, I believe.”  That was most definitely the truth.  Emma may have been somewhat wary of the woman but she was grateful for the love she had shown her son over the years,  knowing full well what it was like to be placed in homes that were lacking in that particular emotion.

And if Emma was prepared to use the fact of Regina’s fondness for Henry as a justification for the steps she has taken to ensure he would be provided for, then that is, surely, her business and her business alone.

Mr Jones picked up the watch and turned it over.  “And this belonged to Henry’s father?”

“It was in his possession yes.”  Emma wondered if the vagueness of her answer would be commented on, but Mr Jones merely nodded, and replaced the watch on the table.

“Henry mentioned it to me once.  I think…” he paused, and pulled something out of his pocket.  “It would be a shame for Henry to lose the one thing that remains of his father.” 

Mr Jones placed another watch on the table.  “That was Liam’s and, really I have no use for it.  I think that it should go towards the debt.”

Emma reached over to pick it up, before examining the watch.  “Unfortunately it would fetch very little and its value is mostly sentimental.”

It was only when she glanced over at Mr Jones that she realised her error in viewing the watch with a far too appraising eye.  For all the dancing around the origin of the other objects on the table she wondered if it would, in fact, be this watch which gave her away.

“I used to know someone who worked for a watchmaker,” she murmured, placing it back down on the table.  “I may have…picked up the odd piece of information.”

Mr Jones regarded her thoughtfully.  “Henry’s father?”

“Yes.”  Glad as she was to be able to answer that without adding another falsehood to her list of transgressions, Emma was mostly eager to put her plan into action.  Fetching the small bag she had carried in the train when they travelled to Storybrooke, she began loading her belongings into it. 

“I shall set out now and then hopefully be back before lunch,” she announced, pinning her hat on at the same time.

“No.”  For a moment Emma thought that Mr Jones was about to forbid her to go and set them right back at square one.  Anger flashed behind her eyes and she nearly opened her mouth to object when he added, “If you are going, then I will accompany you.”

Emma considered this proposal.  On the one hand it may greatly smooth her future dealings with Mr Jones if he were to believe they were united in this enterprise.  On the other she had, in the past, worked alone.  She didn’t believe she particularly needed a partner in this crime.

“I think I shall be fine, and I would worry that your presence would merely incite Mr Gold to some other action which will be…detrimental to your health, or finances, or both.”

Mr Jones looked a little chastened, and Emma sighed as that had not been her intention.  Mostly she just didn’t need this new husband of hers watch her slip into an old role, one she had played far too often, for a time at least, far too successfully.

It seemed easier to relent.  “Perhaps if you were to wait outside the shop?” she ventured.  “While I determine just how receptive Mr Gold will be.”

“I’m not certain that would be wise.”

Emma sighed.  “I cannot imagine that you walking through the door of Mr Gold’s shop with your face looking as it does will not be seen as some kind of provocation.”

It was Mr Jones’ turn to sigh at Emma’s words and she watched as his expression changed from exasperation to quiet resignation.  “I suppose that is a valid point.  Well, shall we depart?”

Mr Jones held the door open for her and then Emma waited, growing increasingly restless while he readied the horses and cart.  She hoped she was hiding her nervous energy well but, as she took her place in the front of the cart next to Mr Jones, seated far enough away that even the deepest ruts on the road would not accidentally force her to sit closely beside him, he turned and said “I am certain you will succeed in this task you have set yourself.”

“And what makes you so sure?’

“Because I’ve yet to see you fail.”  With that, and before Emma had a chance to demure, he set the horses in motion and they were off and Emma felt the time for all discussion had passed.  She held the bag carefully on her lap and didn’t speak again until they were in Storybrooke and she had climbed down from the cart, taking Mr Jones’ proffered hand as she did so.

“Thank you, Mr Jones.” 

It’s only as his head twisted sharply to look at her face, that Emma realised her mistake.  At some point in time he’d stopped being Killian again and she wasn’t entirely certain why, only that she wanted to maintain some distance between them and this formality helped her immensely.

It is so much easier if she can keep him at arm’s length, something she failed at so spectacularly the night before.

If he was offended by the name she called him, and his look suggested that he was hurt as much as anything, then he did not voice any of his feelings on the matter.  Rather he released her hand, rather quickly, and went to tug, again, on the rope securing the horses to a post driven into the ground.

Emma had noticed before that this was his habit and thought anything of it.  In light of that morning’s revelations it made perfect sense.  Of course she also wondered if it was her place to say something to reassure him that she wasn’t going to be run down in the street.

But she didn’t have the words for that and so instead started walking towards the pawnbroker’s, and hoped that her outward demeanour would not give away the feeling she kept inside.  It was time, she thought, to pull out her old tricks and she couldn’t possibly do that if she was focused on Mr Jones instead.

Or Killian.  Perhaps she was better to keep calling him that, if using his title caused him so much distress.

Emma adjusted the bag on her arm before she pushed open the door of the pawnbroker’s and stepped inside.  The atmosphere was dark and oppressive; goods were stuffed into every conceivable space of the small interior and, if Emma had been at all able to think of an alternative to confronting the owner of the shop, then she may have turned on her heel and walked back through the door.

But there was nothing else to be done, and Mr Gold emerged from the back of the shop anyway.  He appeared a little taken aback to see her there, but recovered quickly.  Still, his greeting was considerably less than polite.  “This is a surprise, Mrs Jones.”

The fact he was rattled, however slightly, was an advantage that Emma was tempted to press further.  But she held back, waiting to see what else the encounter might reveal.  “I hope a pleasant one at least, Mr Gold.”

“Indeed.  But a surprise all the same.  Tell me, what brings you in here?  I should have doubted that you’d be one for…browsing.”

Emma ran a finger along a crystal decanter, as nonchalantly as possible.  “You’re correct, I’m not here to browse.”

“Then you have something to sell?”

Emma tried to ignore the rather gleeful tone to Mr Gold’s voice and maintain as much composure as she could.  “I do.  I have been fortunate that I have been left some items that I now find are superfluous.”

Mr Gold nodded and gestured for her to approach the counter.  Emma laid the things across the glass, concentrating hard on what she was doing and ignoring Mr Gold as best as she was able.  His glance was far too appraising, and she hoped that he was merely using it to place a value on the things she wished to sell, and not on Emma herself.

He picked up a candlestick and turned it over in his hand.  “You are indeed a fortunate woman.  Or you were at least.  Your relatives were quite generous with their bequest.”  He turned his gaze on Emma and she couldn’t help but meet his eyes this time.  “It seems a shame that your circumstances have changed so…dramatically.”

Mr Gold’s eyes dropped to Emma’s hands and she fought hard against the urge to hide them and remove the blisters and cracked skin from his sight.  She cursed that she hadn’t had the foresight to wear gloves.

“In truth it is mostly sheer good luck on my part, to have been so remembered by people of whom I, myself, knew very little.”  Emma smiled as best she could, unhappy with the pretence she was, once again, forced into.

At the time she’d believed it was the price for taking up with Neal; she’d known he was a thief from the first time their paths crossed.   And after all, what use were stolen goods unless you had a way to make some money from them?  That was where Emma shone, traipsing all over New York, playing the role of woman down on her means but fortunately in the possession of a bequest by a generous family member.  Back then, it had seemed like a challenge; the more sympathy she could gather from whatever shopkeeper she preyed upon, the better chance she had of being rewarded with a generous offer for her wares. 

Most importantly, they would forget any suspicions they might have held regarding the provenance of the items.

At the time, it had been exciting, thrilling even.  A battle waged between Emma and her hapless, and unwitting, victim and each time she had been triumphant it had encouraged her to try again, to press her luck, to make the story more outrageous, the range of goods she offered more varied and of higher quality.

Until the day when it had lost all its appeal.  When she was alone and frightened and in danger of being caught with the incriminating watches which were the only tangible thing Neal had left her, save for the baby she was carrying, it had seemed like the worst game in the world.

It didn’t seem much better now, facing Mr Gold and hoping to just make it through the morning without too many awkward questions.

“Very generous relatives, indeed,” Mr Gold murmured, replacing the candlestick and picking up the watch.  “You were left this, too?”

“It was in the possession of my late husband.”  Emma found the lie left an ashen taste in her mouth.  Where once the falsehoods were a tool of her trade, now it felt like a betrayal of the trust that had been placed in her when Liam Jones had paid for her to come and be his bride.

And while it might be another man that she was betraying now, it didn’t lessen the damage she thought her lies could cause if they were discovered.

“Well that is a shame,” Mr Gold said, his words off-hand and empty of any real sympathy.  “I’m sure your son would have enjoyed having something of his father’s.  But I suppose he must accept the consequences of your decision, the same as you have.”

Emma’s patience was wearing thin.  “I think that if you were so concerned with how I provide for my son then perhaps you should have been the person advertising for a wife.”

Mr Gold chuckled without any real mirth.  “I feel sure, dearie, that it would not be my advertisement that would have caught your eye.  Still, it was unfortunate for you, having the man who brought you here die so suddenly.  I can’t imagine that when you set out you imagined you’d end up quite in this position; married to a one-handed farmer with a drinking problem.”

It was a far more direct challenge than Emma had expected and, for a moment, she was at a loss as to how to respond.  Deny anything too vehemently and be branded a liar or a dupe, ignore the insult and appear disloyal.  Neither seemed particularly appealing, but she was saved from having to find any words at all by Mr Gold briskly moving the meeting forward.

“Well, do you want to name a price, or shall I simply tell you what I think they’re worth?”  He made an elaborate gesture, encompassing the items laid out on the counter-top.

Emma hesitated and Mr Gold continued.  “Come now, dearie.  Everything has a price, I’m sure you’re no different.”

She couldn’t help but notice that he had stopped mentioning the goods and begun speaking as if it were Emma herself for sale.  And she felt, for a moment, as though that might be true.  As though this act, designed to free them once and for all from the debt hanging over the farm, would somehow merely place her more firmly in Mr Gold’s clutches.

“Well, what I hoped is that you would see your way to taking this as payment for the money still owing on the farm.”

“I see,” Mr Gold replied.  Emma couldn’t really tell if he was inclined to accept her offer, or otherwise.  His eyes raked over her again and she barely suppressed a shiver in response.

The air in the shop was suddenly frigid.

“It’s a very generous offer on your part, to give up such valuable items for the sake of an enterprise that, with all the best will in the world, simply cannot flourish.”

“You seem awfully certain of a future that is yet unknown to us all, Mr Gold.”  Emma waited for a response and then, when the pawnbroker continued to merely regard her coldly, she reached for the tablecloth.  “Perhaps this was a mistake and it would be better if I kept these after all.”

She wasn’t even particularly elated that her bluff appeared to be working, when Mr Gold laid his hand over hers.  “That seems a mite hasty, Mrs Jones.  Let’s just say that in this line of work, I know a desperate soul when I see one.”

“Well, if you think you have use for these,” Emma said, extricating her hand carefully and remaining as impassive as possible despite the goading remarks from Mr Gold.  He wasn’t at all wrong, but Emma was unwilling to admit as much.

The rules of this game had changed in the time she’d been away from it, and any pleasure had long since drained from the enterprise.  It wasn’t just the threat of being caught that haunted Emma now, but the risk to those around her who might be forever damaged if she failed.

Mr Jones’ earlier words came back to her and, while she supposed they were meant as an encouragement, they merely served as a warning now.  When all was said and done, she simply couldn’t fail.

“I’m sure that there will be someone who will find them desirable,” Mr Gold said.

“And the debt will be settled?”

“Well…for the most part.”

“Which means?”

“As you know I am somewhat alone in the world these days and, like everyone who finds themselves in the same position, I am, occasionally, forced to rely on the kindness of strangers.”

“And what is it that you wish me to do for you, Mr Gold?”

He shrugged in a nonchalant manner.  “I am sure that there will something.  In the meantime, we’ll just say you owe me a favour?  How about that, Mrs Jones.” 

Mr Gold grinned at her, sudden and somewhat frightening.  It suggested that there was nothing good to be gained from being in the man’s debt, for a favour or otherwise.  But Emma was, indeed, desperate, if only to be out of the shop and she nodded in agreement.  “That would be acceptable.”

“Excellent.  Then I shall look forward to our future dealings.  Good day, Mrs Jones.”

“Good day.”  Feeling somewhat dazed by the experience, Emma left the store, the sunshine bright and unpleasant as she stood on the small veranda and let her eyes adjust.  Across from the row of storefronts Emma could see the wagon she and Mr Jones had driven into town on, but there was no sign of Mr Jones himself.

Without thinking Emma glanced in the direction of the saloon, half-expecting to see him standing there with the Tinker’s Belle again, but he was nowhere to be seen.  Emma clutched her bag a little tighter, and looked sideways to the general store wondering if that was a possible location for Mr Jones, but she lacked the appetite to actually enter it and admit that she had no purpose other than to search for an errant husband.

It was not a prospect that appealed.  Nor did the other option, in which Mr Jones was present, but engaged in another conversation with Miss Lucas.

A little unsure of what to do, Emma set out in the direction of the cart, casting surreptitious glances towards the saloon and feeling both disappointed and relieved that she did not see Mr Jones emerging from its depths.

Still, it did not answer the question of where he might be.  Nor did it allow her full attention to be on where she was headed, and she did not notice that it was the French Belle who appeared around the corner of a building and stopped directly in Emma’s path.

There was no pretending that Emma hadn’t seen the woman, and she had no choice but to halt as well, wondering how far politeness could carry her and whether she would be able to escape with merely a few pleasantries exchanged.

After her encounter with Mr Gold Emma was hardly in the mood for another goading from this woman.  She wanted to return to the farm, lick her wounds and pretend that everything was going to be alright.

“What a pleasant surprise it is to see you in town!” the French Belle announced, looking somewhat sly.  “I can’t imagine that you have much opportunity to leave your duties on the farm, although,” she paused, and her eyes dropped to the bag Emma carried.  “Are you taking a trip somewhere?”

“No.”  Emma refused to concoct a reason as to why she had the bag, having long past learned that there were times when it was better to give no story at all.  She may not be able to defend her choices to this woman, but she would not hand her the ammunition to tear her down either.

“Well, I hope you are enjoying your morning’s excursion all the same,” the French Belle replied.

“And I wish the same for you.”  Emma hoped that would be all the dismissal the other woman would require, but she stayed rooted to the spot and Emma was not quite prepared to step around her in such an obvious fashion.

“Well, I suppose I should leave you to locate your husband,” the French Belle said, when the silence had stretched on longer than was comfortable. 

Emma was tempted to ask if she knew where Mr Jones had gone, but pressed her lips together instead, to stop the question slipping out.  She may have been adept at telling lies when circumstances demanded it, but she also knew the very real value in keeping most truths to yourself.  No good ever came of announcing anything to the world at large, and Emma was more than certain that no good could ever come of allowing the French Belle to know that she was not far off the mark. 

Even if Emma would have very much liked to know where Mr Jones was at that moment.

“And I should allow you to return to your own duties.  Goodbye…”  Emma paused, a little stumped as to what she should call the woman.  “I am sorry, I fear I have forgotten your title, you are the French Belle, are you not?”

It was a small triumph when the woman’s eyes flashed with indignation.  “I am, although in my experience a name tells you little about the person who uses it.  Tell me, do you find yourself much changed for having another man’s name appended to your own?”

Emma was sorely tempted to retort that no name had ever been truly hers, the naming of foundlings and rather hit and miss affair at best, but, once again, she held her tongue and waited for the woman to move on to other things.

If nothing else her childhood had taught her the virtue of patience when faced with unpleasantness.

“As you say, a name is only judged by the actions of those who use it.”  It wasn’t an answer to the French Belle’s question at all, but she didn’t seem inclined to press Emma for a more suitable response.

“Good bye, Mrs Jones.  I hope we meet again soon.”  Her words were less than sincere, and Emma was glad when she started to walk away in the direction of the saloon, and decidedly less pleased when the French Belle halted in her tracks and turned back.

“I should add, Mrs Jones, that if you do find your husband, tell him that Lacey wishes to pass on her regards.”

Emma was left standing motionless, watching the woman leave and pondering the statement she’d made.  It was clearly designed to rattle Emma, who’d been rattled enough for one morning by Mr Gold already, but she wasn’t entirely certain that there wasn’t an underlying truth to the remarks.  After all, if the events of the previous night had taught her anything it was that there was an entire history that had passed for Mr Jones, and his late brother, of which she knew nothing.

And things not spoken about, while hardly as grievous as the lies she herself had spun, were still just as capable of causing damage.

But she was unable to ponder the issue any further as Mr Jones arrived with a box of groceries, which he deposited quickly into the wagon.  “I decided to take a leaf from your book,” he announced.  “Mrs Lucas seemed quite amenable to accepting Liam’s watch as payment.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Emma murmured.  “I’m sure your brother would have wanted you to keep it.”

“I feel certain that Liam wouldn’t have wanted you and Henry to starve before the first month of your stay was out.”  He paused.  “I take it your, uh…you were successful?” he asked, when Emma said nothing herself.

“I was.  We struck a deal and the debt on the farm should no longer be a problem.”

“And that is all?”

“All?”  Emma’s tone was a little sharp, but she was wary, and not entirely certain whether the conversation regarding Lacey was being alluded to.  On the back foot was not a position she relished.

“That Mr Gold asked of you…the items, they were sufficient?”

“Why should they not be?  They were valuable things.  We were lucky that I possessed them.” 

Emma watched as Mr Jones stood quietly for a moment, seeming somewhat shocked by the harshness of her tone.  It was not at all what she had wanted to say and she wished immediately that she could take it all back. 

“Yes.  That’s true,” he agreed.

Silence settled over them and continued for the entire trip back to the farm.  Emma refused to be the one to break it, and absolutely refused to do the bidding of the French Belle and remind Mr Jones of some liaison of his past.  At least, she hoped it was the past.

The whole thing left her unsettled and frustrated and she desperately wanted to ask the questions burning in her mind and take away the danger of not knowing, but at the same time she was aware that Mr Jones had already confessed one painful truth about his life that morning and she had done nothing to reciprocate.

It was an awful feeling, and she decided the best way to deal with it was to simply bury it in hard work.  Eschewing Mr Jones’ halting offer to accompany him to the field, Emma stayed in the cabin and busied herself with as many tasks as she could find.  Kneading dough was especially satisfying and she could only hope that she was more successful in baking bread that she was in knowing what to do with her marriage.

She had thought that things would be simpler once the question of the debt on the farm was settled, but she had merely stepped further into the mire.

Emma expected she would see Henry, home from school and full of the latest goings-on in the schoolyard, long before Mr Jones set foot in the cabin again.  It was therefore somewhat surprising when it was her husband and not her son who pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“I came to say,” he began, taking another step and closing the door.  “That perhaps I wasn’t as grateful as I should have been.”

“Grateful?  For what?”

“For the…sacrifices you have made.  I understand why you had those items, I know that watch was destined for Henry one day, and I am sorry that my…my…that you have been forced to part with them in such a manner.”

“I don’t need your apology.”  It was meant to be a statement designed to assuage the man’s guilt, but sounded instead like an accusation of some failing on Mr Jones’ part.

“No.  Well, it is freely offered nonetheless.”

The air in the cabin suddenly seemed oppressive to Emma, heavy with everything that wasn’t being said.  Where previously the cabin had seemed like her place of safety, it now felt as though she was trapped there.

“Who is Lacey?”

Whatever Mr Jones had expected her to say, it was certainly not that and Emma watched as he stepped back, looking for all the world as though she had brandished some weapon at him.

“She’s no one now.”

“That’s a lie, Mr Jones.”

If Emma had expected the same browbeaten response Mr Jones had exhibited to her questioning that morning, then she was sorely mistaken.  His words were angry and more than a little defiant.  “And who are you to speak of lies?”

“You believe me to be a liar?”  Emma wasn’t entirely certain how far she could carry through on acting outraged, so she kept words as cold as possible. 

“I suspect that you have been a little sparing with the truth.  You are, from time to time, somewhat of an open book, Emma.”

“Well better that than someone who hides the truth and puts us all in danger.  If anything had happened to Henry last night, I could never have forgiven you.”

“No.  Well, _luckily_ you were here to save us all.”  With that Mr Jones turned on his heel and marched out of the cabin, leaving Emma shaken.

Even Henry’s subsequent arrival did nothing to rouse her from her sullen mood.  At first he seemed mostly concerned with whether there had been any further sightings of the ‘lost men’ on the property and Emma was at least glad that she could confirm there hadn’t been.

But Henry seemed unusually subdued, and Emma couldn’t pinpoint whether it was the previous night’s confrontation or her own silence that worried him the most.  Perhaps it was both.  Try as she might to put on a brave face, she felt as though things were falling apart around her and she couldn’t stop the gradual decay.

Dinner was a silent affair, Mr Jones appearing only in time to eat, and conversation almost non-existent.

It was long after Henry had retired to bed that Emma finally reached breaking point and decided to do something to remedy the situation.  On the pretext of returning the gun to Mr Jones, she knocked on the door of the little hut, hoping that it was a reasonable reason to be seeking him out.

But when the door opened she faltered a little, and her words came tumbling out in a rush.  “This.  Is yours.  I thought I should return it.”

“I was not about to accuse you of theft.”  His words, though sharp, were not completely unkind.

“I didn’t assume that you would.  But I have no use for it, and you may.”

“Then I take it that you will not be coming to my aid should I require it tonight?”  His tone was a little jovial, and Emma was not in the mood for that.

“I sincerely hope that will not be the case given my actions this morning.” 

“No.  Quite.”  Mr Jones seemed lost for a moment, then he remembered that she was still holding the shotgun and took it out of her hand, leaning it against the doorframe. 

“I’m sorry.  About what I said earlier,” he said, sounding contrite.  “I think that, perhaps, I expressed myself poorly.”

“When you accused me of being a liar.”  Emma wondered what on earth she had hoped to gain from another encounter with Mr Jones.  

“When I gave you the impression that I cared so much about whatever it is you don’t want to tell me.  Don’t…don’t go.” 

Emma had, indeed, been about to leave and stopped her movements, taking the time to study Mr Jones’ face.  As far as she could tell in the scarce light from the candle inside the hut he appeared sincere.

“Just answer me one thing,” Mr Jones continued.  “You had those items all along…why did you not sell them when you first arrived?  Take Henry and start again somewhere else?  Why even bother coming here?”

He didn’t add _and marry me_ , but clearly that was part of the question as well.  Emma took a deep breath and answered, as truthfully as she could.  “Any money I may have earned from their sale would not have lasted so long and I would still have…it would still have been difficult for me to earn more with Henry in my sole care.  And I could not…would not, send him away again.  I had promised him a home, and I owed him that.”

“A home here?” Mr Jones asked, quietly.

“Yes.”

“And you trusted me to give that to you?”

Emma didn’t answer this time, fearful of causing offence or pain.  To herself, or Mr Jones, she wasn’t entirely certain.

“Then I’m sorry.  If I broke that trust.  I truly am.  And I’m sorry for...for asking for more than you were prepared to give,” he said.  Mr Jones reached out, slowly, as though she were a horse that might easily startle.  He stroked her cheek, reverently, and she was afraid that she might lean into his touch and give herself away.  Instead she remained steadfast, and offered a dismissive response.

“I suppose it hardly matters, if I’m such an open book.”

Mr Jones chuckled, and, to Emma’s dismay, his hand fell away.  “Not always, I confess.  But enough that…I can see that in some ways, you and I, we’re a little alike Emma.  And I realise that whatever it is you wish to keep to yourself is clearly something that causes you pain.  I understand that.  But I also understand that I am far from the man you expected to call your husband and I have, perhaps, been deluding myself into thinking that did not matter.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I have no wish to cause you more pain, and I think that, perhaps, our partnership should be a little less…cordial than I would have otherwise wished it.” 

“Less cordial?”

“Perhaps less…”  Mr Jones seemed to be searching for the right term.  “Last night, in here…” he began, but Emma cut off his words.

“Last night emotions were very close to the surface, I’m sorry…”  This time it was Mr Jones who jumped to speak.

“Emma.  I won’t shame you for something that I very much enjoyed.  But at the same time, I cannot wish for more from you, and it is clear that you wish to distance yourself somewhat.  I cannot help but notice that I am back to being Mr Jones to you, and I…I respect that.  I think that you should, perhaps, be mindful of the fact that I have yet to fully earn your trust.  I do not think I can offer you what you seek.”  He stood awkwardly, waiting for Emma’s response.

And she wasn’t entirely certain just what that was.  It was tempting to give in as she had done the night before, declare that she didn’t care about what had happened in the past, and allow herself the luxury of feeling wanted.  But it was clear that Mr Jones’ words, polite as they were, were meant to maintain a distance between the two of them and whatever nobility he thought he had trotted out when he said them, they still hurt Emma deeply.

She had been right.  Secrets never did anyone any good.

“Fine then.  Goodnight, Mr Jones.”

With that Emma turned and walked across the yard and very purposefully did not look back.

**Thanks for reading!**

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here I am back again with a new chapter, just when you’d all given up :D I am hoping that this year brings more regular updates to this story, so stay tuned! 
> 
> But in the time when I wasn’t updating this story I finished my other multi-chapter Kind Hearts and Cat Flaps (it’s a story that’s very dear to my heart and I’d love you all to give it a chance), and posted a Christmas one-shot Santa’s Little Helper for the CSSS on Tumblr. You can find both under my profile.

Killian told himself it was for the best, that he and Emma, or perhaps she should be Mrs Swan again…at any rate, they were far better off if they remained cordial but recognised the fact that their marriage was destined to be one in name only.  Really, he thought, he was little more than a farmhand as it was and perhaps he should be content with that role and accept that he’d never be anything more to the woman he worked alongside in the field each day.

It seemed the sensible course of action, the one that would spare him the anguish of having to confess more of the dark moments of his past to Mrs Swan…Emma.  A decision that would allow him the dignity of being, if not perhaps her true partner, at least not something she despised.

But it seemed she did not feel the same way, and, for the three days in which he had tried to stay his course, Mrs Swan, or, rather, her obvious displeasure in his choice, remained the rocks he must navigate.

He had hoped that they would remain friendly but it has become clear that Mrs Swan is more likely to count the much-maligned stove as her close ally before she ever feels that way about him again. 

And the worst part is not that he regretted giving away the chance to ever be something more to Mrs Swan, to Emma.  No, it’s the way he missed those rare moments in which she shared herself with him, the glances across the table when Henry said something amusing, the cups of coffee she’d place in front of him.  All of that is lost now, and he feels far worse for having been so close to having all that he desired.

She was an open book, and now she is not only shut tight, but put away on a shelf somewhere, far beyond reach.

He had been looking for some way to breach the divide which had opened up between them, but Mrs Swan leaves no opportunity for any discussion regarding, well, anything.

Her work ethic cannot be faulted; when she was not in the field she found time to take care of the laundry, to tend to the garden and dinner was always prepared now with the minimum of complaints regarding the troublesome stove. 

Even Henry seemed unusually subdued and that troubled Killian as well.  He was left wondering if the boy’s withdrawal had been prompted by something his mother had said, and, although he is well aware it is her right, he had found himself missing the way in which spending time with the boy gave him a few rare moments in which he felt, mostly, free of judgement.  It is something he has been sorely lacking since Liam’s death.

It is not at all how Killian had imagined when he spoke the words to Mrs Swan, the ones that he believed would remove the danger of her ever finding out the truth about his situation, about the girl Lacey who she’d somehow heard of, about the past actions he very much regretted.  He thought there would be some peace in the situation, some nobility to be found.

Instead he has found himself cold and lonely and utterly…bereft.  There’s no joy in nobility, despite what others might say.  There is only emptiness and loss.

His fine words have failed him and he is reduced to seeking comfort from the bottle of brandy left in his hut by Emma on the night he was attacked.  It is barely any comfort at all and mostly serves as a reminder of everything that has gone wrong for him.

And even in the depths of his despair, when has drunk more than he should have and spent more time thinking about what might have been than is advisable, he cannot stop himself from hoping that there will be a knock in the hut door again, that she will have found a reason to bridge the gap between them, and that he will be taken back into her confidence.

But such an encounter has never arisen and he slept, dreamlessly, each night only to find the morning did not bring any change in his situation and Mrs Swan remained implacable.

At least until the morning she does not appear in time to leave for work in the field.  Previously, she had been nothing but punctual, usually waiting for him near the barn, hoe in hand and ready to maintain a reasonable distance between them as they walked.

He was uncertain as to what course of action to take.  Seeking her out, enquiring as to her plans for the day, things that may have been possible the previous week now seemed like a step too far under the new rules and regulations they followed. 

But yet, something twisted in his gut and made him believe that this was a sign that there was something wrong, something that would make Mrs Swan turn her back on her previous promises to help him as best as she was able.

There was a small part of him that thought that perhaps she had merely given up, decided that none of it was worth her efforts any longer, and she was simply preparing to leave the farm.  But Killian ignored it and marched towards the cabin, intent on finding out exactly what has delayed Mrs Swan’s arrival.

But whatever catastrophe he thought had befallen Mrs Swan that morning all he found, as he peered through the open door, was the sight of her standing in quiet contemplation of Henry’s bed.  It left him feeling a little foolish, to say the least, and, perhaps, a little disappointed as well.

It wasn’t so much that he expected to be her rescuer, he’d already proven himself more than unworthy of that role, but he would have liked the opportunity to offer some…assistance all the same.

And although Mrs Swan may not be an open book to him, it appears he cannot say the same about himself.  “I see you have come to inquire as to my whereabouts,” she said, barely looking over her shoulder to acknowledge his approach.  Killian couldn’t quite put his finger on her tone and he wavered between thinking she was annoyed, or merely resigned.

Either option didn’t exactly bode well for him.  Whichever it was, it was clear that she had no need of his presence.

“I simply thought that we might begin the day by walking to the field together,” Killian offered, refusing to feel chastened.  He’d done nothing but bear the weight of her disapproval since he had suggested that it was best that Emma’s life was better off if it were separate from his own.  Perhaps it was a yoke of his own making that he was burdened with, but it chafed all the same.

Mrs Swan turned her head at this, her eyes coolly appraising.  “I did say that perhaps we should be less familiar,” Killian informed her, somewhat defensively.  “Not maintain a state of outright enmity.”

He could see the flash in her eyes as she registered his words, and prepared to be bombarded by a volley of her own, but, instead, her shoulders sagged a little and it appeared that she judged it not worth the bother.

Somehow Killian thought that being ignored was worse than facing Mrs Swan’s anger.  He wasn’t certain, however, how to convince her to act differently. 

Wavering, and uncertain whether his presence was required, or even noticed, by Mrs Swan, Killian stood in silence for a few moments longer.  The slightly rebellious part of his mind refused to admit defeat and simply slink away unnoticed, but the longer he stood there, the longer he wondered what on earth was going through her mind.

At last she spoke.  “School is important, and so I sent Henry this morning.” 

Killian considered whether Mrs Swan had mistaken his last statement and its intent as his mind returned to their argument the morning after she’d arrived in Storybrooke.  Surely things weren’t so bad now that she was prepared to re-hash the disagreement over Henry’s schooling simply to prove some kind of point?

“Yes,” Killian replied.  “We came to an agreement on the matter and I hardly think that I have done anything which suggests I have reneged on my…”  He stopped talking, abruptly, as Mrs Swan waved her hand in a matter which suggested that she wished for silence, leaving Killian utterly confused.

“This morning.  I sent him _this_ morning,” Mrs Swan reiterated which did not help Killian understand the situation any better.  He assumed his confusion was obvious as Mrs Swan studied him for a moment, frowned, and then added “He complained of not feeling well.”

Killian felt a little clearer about the situation, although no less uncertain of just what it was that was required from him.  If anything at all. 

“School is important,” Mrs Swan said again, brushing her hands briskly against the trousers she was wearing, and Killian assumed that would be the end of the matter. 

But she remained distracted as they walked to the field and he couldn’t help but notice that she did not work at her usual speed, but paused to look far into the distance, her hand on her hoe but her mind clearly elsewhere.

“Perhaps you should go to the school and check on him?” Killian suggested, and wished immediately that he hadn’t as his sudden arrival by her side made Mrs Swan jump visibly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I simply suggested that, if you are still concerned about Henry, then perhaps it would be wise to ensure that he is, indeed, well.”

Mrs Swan frowned and shook her head, “No, that seems…unnecessary.  And I have work to do.”

Killian decided that this was not the moment to discuss the fact that Mrs Swan’s obvious worry was clearly affecting her ability to wield a hoe, and he merely nodded in agreement and retreated back to his own patch of the field from where he could watch Mrs Swan further.

Only he was not as surreptitious as he may have hoped because his interest in Mrs Swan was spotted by the woman herself.  “Are you concerned that I do not have my mind on my task?” she asked him.

“I am concerned that you are concerned about Henry,” he replied, truthfully, daring to step a little closer to where she had been working.  “I had not realised that he was sick.”

Mrs Swan made an odd motion with her head, half nod, half dismissal and magnified by the large bonnet she was wearing which made her look like an odd sort of doll.  “He has complained of a sore throat, and this morning said his head hurt and his nose was a little runny.  In all likelihood there will be some reason he was unwilling to attend school today.  But it is important, and so he has gone.  I suspect he will be fine by suppertime.”

“Well.  That is good then.”  Killian had very little notion of how childhood illnesses progressed; none of his mother’s subsequent children had made it past infancy.  If Mrs Swan was confident that Henry would be well, then it would most likely be so.

But his answer did not seem to please Mrs Swan, and she made a tutting noise and turned to look at Killian over her shoulder. 

“Except that I cannot be certain,” she continued.  “And that is the problem, of course.  That I am so inexperienced a mother that it does not matter if you stand dumbly by and agree with my every word, I simply do not have the…the…first-hand knowledge with which to back up my stance on the matter.  And now you know that I am, once again, likely to have made a mistake where my son is concerned but I hope you will appreciate that, unlike some, I am willing to have my failures out in the open.”

While there was no doubt who Mrs Swan’s last barb was aimed at, it made Killian somewhat pleased to have her finally let down her guard, even if it was just to throw insults his way.  For the past several days when she’d been shut away in a tower of her own making, presenting only the blank face of the willing and competent worker to the world, she’d been all but lost to him.

This was an improvement, even if he had no idea how to remedy the situation at hand.  “Perhaps if you are concerned, you should visit him?  At school?” Killian suggested again.

Mrs Swan merely shook her head.  “I doubt that course of action would greatly please Henry should he have recovered sufficiently during the morning.  And really, he will be fine.”

Killian refrained from making any further suggestions and simply watched as Mrs Swan swung her hoe vigorously in a manner that seemed designed to prevent any further discussion of the matter.  She remained so intent on her task that she didn’t notice the appearance of a figure on the horizon waving to them a half hour later.

It was only when Killian stopped working himself and stepped forward to get a better view that Mrs Swan’s attention was caught and she stared at the figure in the distance.  “Who is that?”

“It appears to be Sheriff Nolan,” Killian answered and he turned towards Mrs Swan just in time to see her stiffen.

“Hell and damnation,” she muttered and Killian wasn’t certain if she was addressing him at all, or merely talking to herself.  Either way, it was obvious from the way her body stiffened as she looked around that Mrs Swan was expecting trouble from the sheriff’s visit.

Killian judged it unlikely that the ruffian Emma had shot would have complained to the sheriff, but there was a small chance that Mr Gold may have raised questions about the provenance of the items he’d bought from Emma.  In fact, Killian wouldn’t put it past him.  It would be the sort of thing the old bastard might well do, just to add another layer of misery to the whole situation.

He was beginning to wonder if he needed to put himself between the sheriff and Mrs Swan, especially when Nolan called out “Mrs Jones?” and Emma looked as though she was ready to run and Killian decided that whatever happened, he wasn’t having her hauled out of here to a jail cell over something she’d done to try to save him.

Taking two steps towards Emma, Killian watched as she removed her bonnet and stood with her hands at her sides, looking for all the world like someone preparing for battle.  He was about to place a hand on her arm, although he wasn’t certain if it was meant as a comfort or to stop her bolting, when he heard Sheriff Nolan call out “I’ve brought Henry home,” and Emma did, indeed, take off running, only in the direction of the man she’d seemed so fearful of just moments earlier.

It left Killian stunned, and trying to gather his thoughts as he collected the hoes and their other belongings and then traipsed back towards the cabin, following a now out of sight Emma and uncertain as to whether his presence was even required.  But he couldn’t shake the feeling that, whatever reason the sheriff had for delivering Henry home so early, it was hardly going to be good news and, most importantly, he didn’t want Emma to be alone.

And she was Emma now.  It had been jarring hearing Mrs Jones come out of Nolan’s mouth, Killian still felt he hardly had the claim on her which that moniker implied.  But she didn’t seem to be Mrs Swan, the distant and cold inhabitant of the cabin either.

No, better, perhaps, to just think of her as Emma.

By the time he reached the cabin Emma and Sheriff Nolan were helping Henry down from the wagon he’d been driven in.  The boy was on his feet at least, but just barely.  One look at how pale Henry was sent Killian’s heart plummeting and he looked to Emma for reassurance, but she was far too busy staring worriedly at her son.

Killian wasn’t certain he wished to stay around to witness what would come next.  There was very little he could do now, anyway.  The brief moment of contentment he’d felt earlier, when Emma had turned her ire on him and he had thought that, maybe, there might be a way to build a bridge between them was now gone, eclipsed by dread.

An all too familiar powerlessness swept over him and Killian stayed rooted to the spot as Henry was ushered inside the cabin by Emma, with barely a glance in his own direction.  He didn’t exactly blame her for that, and, in truth, felt more like an interloper than ever before.

He was about to leave and return to work when he met the gaze of the sheriff.  “You, uh, take care of your boy, Mr Jones,” he said, as he climbed back into the wagon he’d arrived in.

“Yes.  I…will,” Killian replied, although he had no idea how he would accomplish such a feat.  He’d seen the slightly dubious look in the man’s eyes as he’d taken in the still-fading bruises on his face, evidence that he could not be trusted not to drag Emma and her son into some kind of mischief.  No, he was hardly a suitable guardian for a child and, anyway, surely the boy was better off with his mother at this time when…when….

He watched the wagon as it drove off, rooted to the spot, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow him.  Emma was about to lose everything and it would be his fault. 

But he was broken out of his reverie by Emma stepping outside the cabin door.  “I need fresh water,” she said, without any preamble, before she retreated back inside again and Killian was left to decide whether or not he was actually pleased to be given a role to play.

Because the hardest part was forcing himself to walk into the cabin with the water, to face up to the fact that Henry was lying, pale and sweaty, in the corner of the room and to realise that, this time, there was no Liam around to tell him that it would all be alright in the end.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the pail of water out in front of him.

“Is it cool?  I need it to be cool,” Emma murmured, her eyes on Henry.

“Yes.”  Perhaps that was stretching the truth a little, but there was no way of making it any cooler than it already was.

“Good.”

Killian hesitated for a moment, waiting to see if there was some other task he needed to complete, but Emma took the pail and set about dipping a cloth into it and said nothing further as she pressed the damp cloth to Henry’s forehead.  The boy murmured something, prompting Emma to answer with a shushing noise and Killian slipped out of the cabin as silently as he could.

He busied himself with the chores he could find around the farm, including those normally completed by Emma and Henry, but the work only kept his mind occupied for brief stretches of time.  Far too frequently he found himself staring at the cabin and wondering what was going on inside.  Or, worse, suspecting what was going on inside and finding himself unable to confirm it for himself.

Eventually a kind of inertia took hold and he could neither bring himself to move forward nor to retreat to the fields again.  And that was how Emma found him when she stepped outside, four eggs resting in the pail which had previously held the chicken’s feed sitting at his feet.  If she wondered why he was standing there, she made no mention of it although, given her rather troubled appearance, Killian sincerely doubted that he even noticed he was there.

“I’ve collected the eggs,” he said, by way of breaking the silence and Emma looked momentarily confused, although he couldn’t tell whether it was his comment or the mere fact of his presence that caused it. 

“I…thank you…” she said, running a hand over the hair that escaped from the tight knot at the base of her skull and placing her hands on her hips.

“How is Henry?”

“He has a terrible cough that makes him sound as though he is barking,” Emma said, and, as if on cue, something of the like sounded from the inside of the cabin.  “I just don’t know what to do.”

“But you believe he will recover?”

“I believe that I don’t know what to do,” Emma replied, sharply.  “And I wish…there is a doctor in Storybrooke, is there not?”

“There is, although I am not certain that his skills can exactly be relied upon.  Dr Whale is something of a…of a butcher.”  Killian could hear the tension rising in his own voice as he spoke, the mention of Dr Whale bringing forth a host of memories and he had no desire to be dragged down into remembering his own treatment, nor the lack of treatment for his brother.

Emma pursed her lips and frowned.  “Well, it is by the by anyway, I no longer have the resources at my disposal with which to pay for a doctor’s care.  I shall have to rely on hope, perhaps prayer even, neither in my experience pay great dividends but it seems I do not have a choice any longer.”

It was back again, the anger in her voice directed at Killian.  But this time he was less inclined to feel gratified that she was unburdening herself in his presence.  There was little he could do to refute her statement, but it didn’t make the words sting any the less.

If she lost Henry, then it would most certainly be his fault.

While Killian may have been prepared to shoulder the blame in his own mind, his own frustration and anger at what had happened bubbled out to meet Emma’s.  “I never asked you to go to Mr Gold.”

“No.  You didn’t.  You seem to prefer pretending that the world around you does not exist, that your actions have no consequences and that you are immune from answering for anything you may have done because you have simply decided that it is not my place to be told.  You did ask me to marry you, you did ask for my agreement to some sort of relationship and yet one simple question has sent you running off to lick your wounds again, although what has happened in the past is really of little concern to me at present.  What does concern me is the character of the man I married and, above all else at the moment, the welfare of my son.” 

With that, Emma turned on her heel and stepped back inside the cabin, shutting the door behind her.  Killian remained for a moment, and then placed the pail with the eggs beside the door before fashioning his own retreat, the hut and the remains of the brandy growing increasingly attractive as the anger he’d felt earlier revealed its true cause.

He was angry at himself and couldn’t deny that Emma had every right to be so as well.

It was only the fact that Killian remembered the look on the sheriff’s face when he’d exhorted him to look after Henry, which prevented him from taking more than a swig or two from the bottle.  Nolan had been quite obviously dubious as to his suitability and, quite frankly, who could blame the man?

He knew what he was, after all.  He’d always known.  There had been a multitude of labels that had applied to him over the years, none of them flattering and all of which he had managed, in one way or another, to live up to.

And the sad truth was that no one, not even Liam, had expected anything more of him.

Until now, perhaps, and even with that thought he wasn’t entirely convinced that it was possible.  That even his desire to be the husband he believed Emma truly deserved would carry him through, that he wouldn’t merely stumble at the first hurdle and prove himself unworthy yet again.

It would have been easy to crumple under the weight of his own fear, to simply give up and accept that the cards were stacked against him and there was no way to fight the inevitable.

But it was the sound of loud coughing, coming from the cabin that broke through the black cloud that had settled over Killian’s thoughts and brought him back to the present.  He had promised that he would look after Henry, after all.  Maybe he was capable of that much.  

Making the decision was one thing, but entering the cabin again was another and Killian hesitated briefly before he slipped inside the door as silently as possible, not wishing to disturb the occupants.  Emma turned her head and glanced in his direction, but didn’t speak and he was left uncertain as to whether that constituted forgiveness or merely acceptance on her part. 

“I have brought this,” he said, holding out the bottle of brandy.  “I thought, perhaps, it might settle him.”

If Emma noticed that the bottle was lighter than the last time she’d seen it, she didn’t comment.  “Help me sit him up,” she instructed, and Killian shuffled past her, wedging himself against the wall so he could support Henry’s back.

It would have been far easier if he could have used his left arm but he couldn’t risk damaging anything with his hook, so his right arm ended up twisted painfully as Henry sat up groggily and Emma urged him to drink a little brandy which she’d poured into a tin cup.

A few sips taken, Henry seemed more than willing to slump back down and, although Killian was glad to have his arm freed, his stomach twisted at the sight of the boy’s feverish pallor and lethargy.

Emma clearly felt the same.  She was almost as pale as her son and her brows kinit together in worry.  But it was the glistening in her eyes, the tears that she was trying very hard not to shed, that concerned Killian the most.

He stood up from the crouched position he’d adopted and asked “May I fetch you anything else?”

“More water.”  There was a noticeable pause, and then Emma added, “Thank-you.”

When he brought it back inside the cabin, he stood silently by as Emma peeled back the bedclothes and opened Henry’s shirt.  “Bring the pail over,” she instructed, and Killian did as he was asked.

Emma spent the next several minutes washing Henry’s chest with the water, before she dried it with a nearby towel and covered the boy up again.

“I hope that works,” Emma murmured and Killian opened his mouth to offer some kind of assurance, but realised there was nothing to say.  The time for making her promises was long past and, perhaps, actions did indeed speak louder than words.

He went to fetch more wood for the fire, and then, on his return, made sure it was well-stoked before turning to Emma and suggesting she try to eat something.

“I…I couldn’t.  Not now.”

“I am certain that even nursemaids need their strength.” 

Killian boiled some of the eggs he’d retrieved earlier and place an egg and some bread on a plate which he held out to Emma.  She took it reluctantly, and, only after some urging, made any attempt at all to eat the food, which clearly held little interest for her when compared to the coughs and sighs coming from Henry.

When he had judged that Emma had eaten everything she was likely to, Killian cleared away their dishes and sat down again in the chair he had pulled from the side of the table and placed near the stool Emma was perched on.

Henry seemed a little more settled now, although the cough still rattled his chest like there was something in there trying to shake loose and every time it happened Killian watched as Emma leaned over her son, tense and drawn.  Killian could only imagine the thoughts in her mind and how bleak they must be.

His own thoughts were, Killian could barely even admit to himself, decidedly more selfish.  He was worried for Henry, that much was certainly true, but he was above all concerned that should Emma lose her son, he would lose the woman he’d never been able to even truly call his wife.  She’d made it plain that circumstances had forced her into this marriage, but, even with the loss of her precious items, there would be nothing to keep her here, nothing to stop her seeking a better life elsewhere, if Henry died.

Killian could hardly lay claim to Emma, after all.  Her disappointment in his decision to remain silent on the matter of Lacey had been palpable.  And now his mind twisted and turned as he tried to decide what would be worse; losing face or losing Emma having never really had a chance with her in the first place.

In the end it was his pride that lost the fight, and he leant a little closer to Emma, although she didn’t turn her head at all.  “You know, whatever you wish to know…you have only to ask.  I won’t…it was a mistake to think that I could keep everything from you…that it was best if I kept it from you.”

His words were halting and he had kept his voice low so as not to disturb Henry.  For a while there was no response from Emma and he wondered if she had even heard him.  But eventually she turned her head and spoke plainly.  “I have other matters that require my attention right now.”

“Of course.”  He could hardly offer up a protest, not when Henry was laying ill in front of them.  This was no time for offering words, fine or otherwise.

It was understandable, certainly, but frustrating all the same.  Killian could feel the life he’d so desired slipping away from him as thoroughly as if he were putting Emma and Henry on the train out of Storybrooke himself.

He thought that he should leave her in peace but he couldn’t bring himself to stand up and take the necessary steps.  She may never be his, but he wasn’t prepared to let her go just yet.

And, after several moments of silence, it became apparent that Emma had another question to ask him anyway.  “Was it like this?  When your brother…passed?”

“No, it was…”  He forced himself to form the words.  “He died where he fell, and long before I realised what had happened.  There was no waiting.”

Milah’s death had all but passed him by.  He had memories, fuzzy and painful, of seeing her lying in the road, but everything was clouded by his own pain and then he had blacked out anyway as the so-called treatment of his hand took place.  It was only later when he awoke to find the damage that had been wrought that he realised she was gone forever.

“My mother though,” he said, quietly.  “My mother lingered for a while before she died.”

“What caused it?”

“Childbirth.  She…I think she was just worn down by it.  I don’t even know how many babies there were in the end.  And she was terrible with names, all the girls were Mary but none of them lived.  I was the second Killian.”

“You’ve lost many, then.”

“Aye.  But it was almost a relief when she was finally…released from any further pain.  It was hard to watch her live like that, time and time again.  I was just lucky that I was left with Liam.”

He had been watching his hand as he spoke, but lifted his eyes to meet Emma’s.  She held his gaze for a moment, and then turned back to Henry. 

“Regina was sick for a long while,” she said, softly.  “It was a difficult time and I was glad when it was over, but not just because she was no longer suffering, but because it gave me the chance to make a new life with Henry, to have him all to myself for once.  And this… _this_ …” Emma’s voice broke a little and Killian wondered if she’d be able to carry on, but she picked up the thread of her thought again, sounding a little more certain this time. 

“This is my punishment, for ever wishing it so.”

“I don’t believe that, Emma.”  Harder than watching her suffer over Henry’s sickness, was listening to her blame herself in the process.

“No, you don’t understand.  I didn’t wish her ill, I just wanted…I wanted something that was only mine.  And it was selfish, you see.  I don’t know how to keep Henry safe, and I shouldn’t have…”

She didn’t finish the thought, but her meaning was clear.  And, for perhaps the first time, Killian was struck by how utterly alone in the world Emma was.  She had arrived, with Henry in tow and a plan for how she thought their future should be, and somehow the enacting of it had meant that she’d inevitably dragged Killian along in her wake. 

But he could see now just where her desperation came from, why she had been so set on determining whether he was friend or foe, help or hindrance.  Killian had always had Liam to push him through; Emma had only Henry, the reason she kept going.

Without Henry, what would she do?

“I don’t believe it will come to that,” he murmured, wishing he could offer her more comfort than a few empty words.

“I wish I could find it in me to have your hope,” Emma replied sadly, pushing Henry’s hair away from his face as another cough made his chest spasm and his breath wheeze and rattle.

“Then I shall hope enough for the both of us.”  It was an odd role to find himself in; he’d spent so many years assuming that Liam would always be there for him, no matter what the circumstances, that finding himself taking on the same duties felt strange.  The weight of it sat heavy on his shoulders.

Emma didn’t reply, just gave a small nod and resumed her ministrations.  Killian, uncertain of what else to offer her, remained in place, hoping that his presence afforded her at least some comfort.

Time passed, although Killian could not say how long exactly they remained in their positions.  After a time Henry stirred a little and Emma repeated the process of bathing his chest with water while Killian watched.  When that was done, she merely sat, occasionally shifting the boy to a more comfortable position and soothing him when a bout of coughing sent his small frame into spasm.

And then he settled, a little.  Or, at least, the coughing subsided and all that could be heard were his deep, slightly wheezing breaths as he slept.

Killian checked that the fire in the stove would not go out and then took his place again on the chair beside Emma, although she had moved from the stool and was now kneeling on the floor with her head resting on folded arms on the side of Henry’s bed.

It took a few minutes for Killian to realise that she was asleep.  It took even longer for him to decide what the best course of action was.

Crouching down beside her slumped form he touched her shoulder, tentatively.  “Emma.”

She didn’t respond, and he tried again, a little more insistently this time.  With a shudder, she roused herself and turned her head. 

“You should sleep.  Properly.”  Killian hoped his words, although firm, did not sound too harsh.

Emma blinked slowly and Killian noticed how young she looked in the faint light of the cabin, her face a little blotchy and crumpled and her hair all but loose from its knot now.  “Henry might need me,” she replied, her voice sticking in her throat.

“You’ll be nearby, but you’ll need some sleep in the meantime.”

Emma shook her head and frowned, looking petulant, an expression Killian had seen more than once on Henry’s face. 

“He’s resting now, you should…you should do the same now, Emma.”  This time she sighed, audibly and wiped a hand across her face, before leaning forward and examining Henry closely, putting an ear to his chest and listening. 

“I suppose,” she eventually said, leaning back on her heels but not taking her eyes off her son.

Killian shuffled away, giving her room to move, but she remained in place leaning against the edge of the bed, her eyes heavy-lidded and looking as though they might close again.  “Emma,” he chided, putting his right arm under hers and pressing upwards, in the hope that it might separate her from Henry’s bed and force her to stand.

His actions had the desired effect, although he hadn’t anticipated the fact that she would simply lean against him for support, rather than the bed.  Killian had to use his left arm to support her, as well, carefully putting it around her back but keeping the elbow straightened so his hook was well away from her body.  The last thing he needed was to accidentally skewer her again.

Actually manoeuvring Emma when he was holding her in this fashion was easier said than done, and never before had he been so acutely aware of how little space there was in the cabin.  Only now did he notice that the floor was littered with obstacles between Henry’s bed and the door to Emma’s room and at least once he had to pause to ensure that Emma did not simply crash through a chair, but stepped around it.

And he assumed that once they reached the relative safety of the bedroom door Emma would manage on her own, but she seemed reluctant to step over the threshold.  “You need to go to bed,” he reminded her, and she slipped out of his arms, leaving him feeling as though he’d lost something.

The little bedroom was mostly dark; the light from the one candle still burning on the table cast long shadows and Killian watched as Emma slipped into the darkness of the room, disappearing almost from his view. 

He was going to carefully retrace his steps and leave the cabin, when he heard Emma’s voice.  “Stay.”

Killian couldn’t make out if that was a command or a request; either way, he couldn’t find it in him to refuse.  He stepped into the room, pausing as his eyes adjusted to the gloom and made out Emma’s form, now lying on the bed, with her back to him.

For a moment he thought he’d imagined her speaking to him, that she was trying to rest as he’d suggested, and that all he was doing was simply lurking, uncomfortable and unwanted.  But then she spoke again, more tentatively perhaps.  “Stay.”

There was no chair in this room, and Killian was worried that fetching one might break the spell, might cause Emma to rethink her offer…request…whatever it was she meant when she spoke that one word.

And so he quickly pushed off his boots and lay down behind her on the bed, being careful to disturb it as little as possible.  He carefully arranged his left arm high above his head, not wanting to cause injury to Emma, but also wanting to just pretend it wasn’t there, pretend that he was whole still.

The bed was small and hardly comfortable, but he wasn’t about to complain.  Not when this afforded him the opportunity to be so close to Emma, even as she was at the moment, still clad in Liam’s cast-off clothing.  She was still the most alluring thing he’d ever encountered.

And he couldn’t be certain that it wasn’t actually a dream of some sort, brought on by a trying night and little sleep.  A dream in which he lay in this bed every night, in which Emma welcomed him into it with kind words, gentle hands and parted thighs.  A dream in which he could lose himself every night and never have to return to being the Killian Jones he disliked so much.

But it wasn’t true.  And that was what kept him from relaxing fully.  None of it was true and he was here simply because she was a grieving mother who had no one else to turn to.

Killian waited until her breathing changed, becoming slow and even, her body shifting deeper into the mattress, and, temptation of all temptations, against his own.  She shifted in her sleeps so that her hip was resting lightly against his thigh and his own pulse beat heavy in his ears.

He couldn’t stay.

It was a desperate thought, but one he couldn’t shake.  It he believed that he could have been satisfied with this, with a mere pretence, then his night may have had a very different conclusion.  But he wanted it to be real, to lie here with the real Emma, the one who knew what he’d done and who would forgive him anyway.

Because he sometimes found it very difficult to forgive himself.

As carefully as possible, he peeled himself away from the bed and, picking up his boots, crept warily into the other room which now seemed, to his eyes, brightly lit.  He stopped for a moment to watch Henry sleep. The boy seemed to be breathing a little easier, although still restless.  His small form twisted and turned beneath the blanket and then, just as Killian reached for the door, Henry’s eyes opened wide and he stared straight at him.

“Mr Jones, I can’t sleep.”  The boy’s voice was hoarse, but his words were clear.

“Do you want some water?”

“Yes, but I can’t sleep.”  He sounded annoyed, although he accepted the cup of water that Killian passed to him and took a sip.

“You should, uh…maybe you could sleep now?” Killian suggested.

Henry looked thoughtful for a moment.  “No,” he said, decisively although the effect was marred by the cough which followed. 

“You really need your rest,” Killian chided, as Henry’s spasm subsided.  He felt like he’d already had this conversation with Emma and wondered if Henry would be as reluctant to rest as his mother had been.

“Could you read to me?” Henry asked, pleadingly. 

“I…I suppose.”  Killian glanced in the direction of the bedroom, expecting Emma to appear and shoo him away, but the doorway remained dark and silent. 

“I won’t tell Mama,” Henry said, conspiratorially.

Killian sat on the stool beside the bed and took up Henry’s cowboy story book, opening it to the first page.  “Shall I start at the beginning?”

“Yes.  That’ll do.”

Killian began reading, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Emma.  She remained asleep, however.  Or, at least, he assumed she did.  Henry slept too, before he’d even finished the second page, two bright spots on his cheeks and the dark hair stuck to the pale skin of his forehead.

He closed the book and placed it back under the bed, fighting a weariness that suddenly settled over him.  Killian had no way of knowing what the morning brought for Henry, or for himself.  Emma’s willingness to accept his presence during her darker moments might very well be banished by morning’s sun and he could likely find himself cast out again, when the need to tend to her son outweighed all other desires.

The darkness was pressing at the edges of his mind, in the same way it inhabited all the corners of the cabin.  And he let it carry him away, once again.

**Thanks for reading!**


	18. Chapter 18

Emma woke up and the full weight of what had happened the night before immediately pressed against her.  She had left Henry, abandoned him when he most needed her and panic flared up inside her like someone had struck a tinder box inside her chest.

Somewhere in the back of her mind was an awareness that when she had fallen asleep, Killian had been with her.  But this return to the real world, the one in which Henry was sick and she was responsible for him, meant giving up any chance to enjoy the dream-like memories of the night before.

Throwing off the quilt, Emma stepped quickly through the door of the bedroom anxious to find out what condition Henry was in. 

It had never seemed quite so far from her bed to his before, certainly not in this tiny cabin.  Yet Emma stopped, short, when she realised the scene before her was far from anything she had expected to find.

Henry was asleep and quite clearly still breathing, the wheeze in his chest audible as it rose and fell rhythmically.  But he was not alone in the bed, and, next to him, Emma could clearly discern the sprawled out form of Killian Jones.

Emma shook her head, slightly, in the hope it might clear her mind.  She’d been prepared for the worst as far as Henry’s condition was concerned, had hoped that she might be wrong, but this…was something altogether more puzzling and she was torn between relief, confusion and a small and niggling twinge of jealousy.  _Hadn’t she asked Killian to stay with her?_

Before she had decided what the correct course of action was, Killian stirred and opened first one eye, then the other.  Emma remained as still as possible, almost as though she’d been caught in the act, although of what exactly she wasn’t sure.

“I’m sorry…I fell asleep,” Killian said, his voice thick with sleep.  “Henry asked me to read to him.”

Emma was certain that she should reply, quite possibly to assure Killian that no apology was required, but she was still feeling far too lost in her own thoughts to find the words she needed.

Killian seemed to take her silence as a rebuke.  He sat up a little straighter, struggling, Emma noticed, because he was reluctant to put the hook anywhere near the bed.  She wondered, briefly, if he normally slept with it on.

And then she gathered her thoughts.  “Well, thank you.  For watching over Henry.”

“He’s, uh…he seems to be comfortable,” Killian replied, twisting awkwardly to glance at Henry as he stood up. 

“Yes.  That is good.”  Good was, Emma thought, a very poor description of what it was.  It was both wonderful in that her darkest fears hadn’t been realised, but also worrying in that who knew what the new day would bring.  It was as though Henry was poised on the edge of a cliff and Emma had no way to pull him back if he leant too far out.

Silence fell in the cabin and Emma was acutely aware of how dishevelled her appearance must be, still dressed in the work clothes from the day before with her hair a wild tangle that she might never get a brush through again.

And that, for reasons that she had no ability to even fathom, was the moment Emma broke completely and she couldn’t stop the tears falling from her eyes or the loud sob that accompanied them.

“Emma…”  Killian’s voice, full of concern, just made it worse somehow.  Embarrassed by her failure at maintaining any sense of proportion, she fled back into the bedroom and closed the rickety door behind her.

She felt certain that it would only take a moment or two to collect herself if she could just be given the space to do so, but Killian had no such notion and promptly opened the door she had just shut. 

“Emma…”  Killian sounded so concerned for her that it simply made Emma feel all the worse.  Because he was here to comfort the woman who was still worried about her son, not the woman who didn’t know how to feel about the man in front of her or why it mattered so much that there were knots in her hair.

“I am fine.”  Emma wiped her eyes, quickly, and refused to turn around to actually face him for fear that it would merely prolong her embarrassment.  She didn’t need him here, didn’t need to be coddled or reassured or comforted or any of the things that she should currently be offering to Henry.  She was being ridiculous and oh so selfish and the thing that would make it worse would be if Killian realised this as well.  She just needed him to leave, and then there would no longer be the risk of him finding her out.

She just needed him to _leave_.

But even Emma realised that this thought was entirely at odds with the words she’d spoken the night before, when she’d implored Killian to stay with her because she couldn’t face lying in the dark on her own.  And it was the realisation that she therefore couldn’t blame Killian for what he did next that meant Emma allowed him to put his arms around her, gingerly and with his left arm held straight, and try his best to comfort her.

It was anything but comforting to Emma.  It simply reinforced the idea that she was far too concerned with her own failings, made far too needy by her own despair, and that she was behaving as no true mother should.

All the same, there was some peace to be found in allowing herself to be held, in pressing her cheek to Killian’s chest, in hearing him murmur her name and the feel of his hand stroking her back.  It was indulgent and unproductive and it reminded her, once again, of how very little she was doing to help Henry, but there was no denying that it felt good.

“He’s fine.  He’s just sleeping, but I’m certain he’ll wake soon.”  Emma heard the words but had no notion of how to explain to Killian that her main concern wasn’t whether Henry was currently fine, but whether she was. 

She was being silly; the matter of Lacey and whatever other mysterious secrets Killian still kept were hardly settled and with Henry so sick nothing should make her feel secure, _nothing_.  And yet, here she was feeling nothing but safe.

Still confused as to what to do, Emma pushed Killian away and stepped back.  It was hard not to note the reluctance with which his dropped his arms and feel tempted to return to them.

But Emma was done with being weak.  “I thank you for…your kindness.  And for staying with Henry while I was sleeping.  It is much appreciated.”

Killian appeared to be struggling to find his own words, but Emma decided that, whatever they were, she didn’t need to hear them.  Instead she carefully moved past him and back through the door, walking straight to Henry’s bedside and kneeling down beside it.

He stirred, turning towards her and Emma watched as his eyelashes fluttered a couple of times before his eyes opened fully.  “Mama?”

“I’m here, Henry.”

Emma smoothed her hands over his forehead, which simply confirmed everything his flushed cheeks had already told her.  Henry was still warm to the touch, the fever clearly waxing and waning and Henry far from out of the woods just yet.

Emma took a deep breath and steeled herself for what was to come.  “It’s alright, Henry.  You’ll be better soon.”

She had no way of knowing if she could keep that promise, but she would do the absolute best that she could.  Henry was the most important thing in her life, and Henry would get all her focus while he required it.

Even so, Emma had to pretend that she couldn’t hear Killian leaving the cabin.  And, worse, she had to bite back the urge to turn around and call him back.

Henry remained in bed for another three days and for most of that time Emma forced herself to all but ignore Killian as he hovered in the background of their lives.  Her mind was traitorous, however, and she was constantly aware of how much effort she had to expend to appear unaffected by the man’s presence.

It was troubling and confusing and, deep down, Emma felt that there must be something intrinsically wrong with her.  But the only person with whom she could even discuss the matter was Killian, a notion that Emma found simply mortifying.

And so she stuck to conversations regarding far more mundane matters, for some reason eager for even the simplest contact with Killian.  She would never admit to leaving her sick child sleeping peacefully inside the cabin while she waited in the yard with the express purpose of catching Killian as he returned from his day’s work, but that was where she found herself, slowly folding the bedding she had airing on the line.

In Emma’s mind it seemed easiest to blame the desire to seek out Killian’s company on the restrictions that Henry’s illness placed on her, reluctant to even admit to herself that the true reason may have been that she wanted to simply hear him speak her name with such warmth and reverence again.

But no explanation seemed suitable enough when Killian appeared on his way to the barn, hoe clutched in his good hand and for a moment Emma was tempted to pack up her task and remove herself before she could be accused of lurking anywhere.

She remained resolute, however, and greeted Killian with what, she hoped, was a suitable smile. 

“Henry is doing well?” Killian asked, when he was close enough for conversation.

“He is better than he has been, though certainly not recovered entirely.”

“Well.  That is good.” 

“And I am sorry that I have been a little…remiss in my other duties,” Emma said.  “I know that I made promises…about working on the farm, and I have not forgotten them…”  She was, perhaps, not as contrite about the matter as her words made her sound, although she was certainly anxious to discover whether or not her presence had been missed by Killian.

“I understand.  Henry comes first.  He is…lucky to have such a devoted mother tending to him.”

It wasn’t perhaps the answer that Emma most desired, but she was pleased of the compliment none the less, even if she struggled to believe it was really true.  “I’m quite certain you’ve seen maternal care before…you had a mother, after all.  She must have tended her…”  Emma stopped speaking, suddenly aware that the confidences they had shared in the dark of the cabin were more painful when brought out to be examined in the bright light of day.

Killian dropped his gaze and looked troubled.  “Ah, well.  I don’t remember my mother having much…time to tend to the sick.  Or to grieve.  My, uh…father was a jealous man, and one to press for his…rights.  There was always another babe on the way very soon.”

Emma had no consoling words to offer Killian, it was as impossible to make up for the deficiencies of his childhood as it was for her own. 

“I wouldn’t want…it was a little difficult,” Killian said, haltingly.  “I’m glad that Henry is able to be better tended.”

There was silence for a moment, and Emma was struck with just how much had been left unsaid.  Since the night that he’d left her alone the cabin, their wedding night, Emma reminded herself, Killian had remained steadfast in his promise that he would not force anything upon her.

Yet this was the same man who remained determined to keep his secrets, even up to the point where they had put Henry and herself in danger.  Emma couldn’t quite reconcile the two.  In her experience, once people showed you their true colours that was it.  But this was something quite different and altogether more perplexing. 

“Yes, well.  I suppose I should return to the tending,” Emma replied in the end, before gathering up her laundry and heading inside the cabin.  Henry was awake now, and he twisted around in bed to watch Emma enter.

“Is that you, Mama?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Where’s Mr Jones?”

“He is…working Henry.  It’s still afternoon.”

The boy sighed loudly.  “I want him to read to me again.”

“Well, I could read to you.  After I put these away and start dinner perhaps…”

“No, it’s alright, Mama.  I’ll wait for Mr Jones.”

Finding herself so thoroughly dismissed by Henry, Emma had no recourse but to retreat back into her own thoughts; it was not the easiest place to find herself and just as concerned with Killian as Henry’s apparently were.

In fact it was difficult to know who, out of herself and Henry, was the more pleased when Killian did walk into the cabin an hour or so later.  Emma did her best not to make her feelings known, and quickly turned back to the pot she was stirring, but Henry had no such reticence.  “Mr Jones!” he cried, as though it had been days since they’d last seen each other, and not the matter of some hours.

“You seem to be feeling better, Henry,” Killian commented.

“I am, although Mama says I still need to rest.  But it’s boring in bed and I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to come and read to me.”

“If you mother doesn’t think it will be too taxing for you then I suppose I could.”

Emma looked over her shoulder, wary of seeming too eager for Killian’s company.  She wasn’t given a chance to air her views, though, as Henry chimed in quickly.  “I have been resting, and it’s very boring and I’ve looked and looked at that hole in the wall for so long, but I don’t think it’s making me any better.”

“Well I suppose if I’m rescuing you from merely staring at the wall, then there can’t be any objection can there?”

“No.”  Emma had tried to think of something slightly clever to add to that, but decided to stick with the simple fact that she would not mind at all if Killian read from Henry’s book.  In fact she found it quite enjoyable to listen to Killian read, the lilt in his voice a pleasant one, and she was not too proud to admit, if only to herself, that he was a far more fluent reader than she was.  Somewhere he had managed to scrape together a slightly better education than she’d found for herself.

It was just another perplexing piece of the whole that was Killian Jones and which Emma, despite her doubts and her unerring belief that trusting him was a dangerous thing to do, found herself utterly fascinated by.

The odd little flutterings in her chest, provoked no doubt by Killian’s presence, were matched by a sinking feeling deep in the pit of her stomach.  It as wasn’t as though Emma hadn’t marched down this road before; she knew exactly where it led and should by no means be in any hurry to arrive at that rather grim destination.

_And yet…_

Emma forced her mind away from thoughts that better belonged to someone who was far more naïve than she had ever been and back to the matters at hand.  Getting dinner prepared was a much better focus than daydreaming about the man currently reading to her son.

Although she did find it gratifying that he appeared so fond of Henry, and the boy, in turn, with him. 

Henry’s appetite had returned somewhat and he made his displeasure at only being served broth known.  “Mama, I could eat something more.  I don’t think I’m ill anymore.”

“Shush, Henry.  Eat up.”  The truth was that there wasn’t much else to serve up; the only difference between Henry’s meal and the one Emma had served herself and Killian was the addition of a few meagre vegetables.  It had been enjoyable for a while, daydreaming about more pleasant matters, but the reality of their situation had come back to haunt Emma.

If Killian guessed at the turmoil running through Emma’s mind, then he didn’t say anything, although she raised her eyes across the table and found him watching her closely.

And Emma had never before wondered just so intensely what it was another person was thinking than she did in that moment, caught in Killian’s gaze and feeling exposed before him in a way she hadn’t been when he’d found her in a bath in the yard.

When dinner was over, the dishes cleaned and Henry returned to his bed Emma thought about seeking Killian out, but she couldn’t quite fathom what her reasons were for doing so.  Was it because she felt more content in his presence, or was it because she was deluding herself into believing this life was better than it was?

The indecision pulled her in two directions and, ultimately, left her at a standstill.  She stayed in the cabin, alone.

In the morning Henry clamoured for more of her attention, and she found it far more difficult to let her mind drift away.  “I don’t have to stay in bed today, do I Mama?” he pleaded, despite the cough that then made his shoulders shake.

“You need to rest, Henry.”  Emma’s words didn’t find favour with her son, who sighed dramatically and threw himself back against the bed with all the force he could muster. 

“I have rested.  But I’m...I worry that I’m not doing my chores, Mama.”  Henry’s head twisted and he looked at Emma pleadingly.

She felt somewhat sorry for the boy.  His desperate attempt to find a way out of enforced bedrest was surely a good sign, wasn’t it?

“Fine.  If you are so determined to help you may get out of bed and I will find you something to do.”

Emma’s words made Henry look far happier than any boy about to be given chores usually would, something that Emma decided was definitely a good sign.

But Henry’s return to good health was one thing, his good humour lasted only long enough to accompany Emma as far as the vegetable patch and then boredom set in, marked by loud sighs and questions about how long weeding would take. 

Emma, however, had other distractions in the form of Killian, who she could just make out walking off in the direction of the field.

She just didn’t realise that she was providing Henry with a reasonable distraction of his own, until she turned in time to see him watching her.  “Would you rather be working with Mr Jones?” he asked, and Emma quickly turned her eyes, and her hands, back to weeding.

“No.”  The last thing Emma wanted was to have Henry think that she was, in some way, disappointed in his company.  Given the events of just a few nights ago, the fact that she was able to spend any time with an, almost, hale and hearty Henry should be considered a Godsend.  Surely she would be tempting fate to even think such a thing.

Henry sighed again, and picked up a hard lump of earth before throwing it.  Emma expected that he would announce that, given the chance, he would join Killian in trying to clear a field because it was a far preferable activity to the one they were currently engaged in.  But, instead, he turned back to Emma and announced “Mr Jones wishes you were there.”

Henry’s words caught Emma’s attention immediately, but she was uncertain at first how to correctly respond to them.  In the end she settled for a murmured “I’m certain he is finding it difficult being the only worker.”

She risked a glance at Henry, who screwed his face up in response.  “I don’t think so, Mama.  I think he just…he doesn’t have anyone else.”

Henry wasn’t saying anything that Emma hadn’t thought herself, but there was something in the way he expressed it, wistful and sad, that made her feel decidedly uncomfortable about the entire situation.

“I mean, isn’t that why he wanted you to stay?” Henry asked, his question not allowing Emma to retreat into silence as she’d hoped to.

“I think there was more to it than that.  I seem to remember you asking for riding lessons… and there was the difficulty of returning.  And, besides, we can hardly be counted as replacement for his lost brother.”

Henry frowned at that.  “I just think he’s happier, when he has company.”

“Perhaps,” Emma agreed.  “And I suppose the same could be said for you?”

“I just want to know if Grace is looking after my schoolbook.  I left it behind…when, you know.  Sheriff Nolan brought me home.  Do you think it’s alright, Mama?”

“I think it will be fine, Henry.  And I also think that Grace, and Miss Blanchard, will be grateful if you are completely better before you return, and less likely to interrupt lessons with a coughing fit.”

Henry visibly bristled at her remarks, but didn’t reply, instead going back to his previous occupation of poking in the dirt.  After a while he said quietly “I just want everyone to be happy.  Don’t you?”

Happy wasn’t something Emma thought much about, certainly not in regards to her own feelings.  She valued being safe about all else; happy just seemed like a luxury meant for others.  But with Henry, it was different.  “Are you not happy, Henry?”

“I am…or, I suppose, I will be when I am better.”

“Well, that’s good.  I’m sure Mr Jones will be pleased to hand over the job of milking again.”

At her mention of Killian’s name, Henry gave Emma a sideways glance.  “I hope so, Mama,” was all he said and Emma was left wondering just exactly what else he thought might make Killian happy.

She was still puzzled about it when the day started to draw to a close and Killian returned from the field in time to be greeted by Henry, whose boredom had only increased over the course of the afternoon.  The prospect of Killian’s company, instead of just his mother’s, proved such a draw for Henry that he all but sprinted over to greet him.

Emma was a little more reticent, still feeling distrustful not of Killian, but of her own feelings towards him.  It was a difficult situation to find herself in.  Usually the one thing Emma could always rely on were her instincts about other people.  But Killian left her floundering and unsure of whether anything she felt could be trusted.

She hid with the chickens, whose raucous scratching didn’t drown out the sound of her own thoughts going over the same ideas again and again, until she judged the coast was clear and it was safe to venture back to the cabin without the risk of running across Killian.

If she couldn’t trust her judgement about him, then she doubted very much that she could trust her actions around him.

There was no chance of avoiding him forever, however.  And by the time she had started trying to scrape together something hot for dinner, Killian appeared dragging a rather recalcitrant looking Henry behind him. 

“Mr Jones thought I’d better rest a little, Mama.  But I’m fine.  It’s boring resting.”

“No, Henry.  You’re still recovering.  Mr Jones is correct; you need to rest now.”  Emma told herself that her words were for Henry’s benefit; he’d only just managed to survive something which nearly came to a nasty conclusion, after all.  She definitely didn’t enjoy the fact that agreeing with Killian brought a conspiratorial smile to his lips as though he too was amused by Henry’s protestations but at the same time glad that the boy was returned to good health again.

She was thinking too much, and it was killing her.

It had never been something she’d found much value in, trying to resolve a problem by examining it this way and that, running through a thousand different scenarios in her mind to reach a conclusion on which was the most effective.  She ran on instinct, on reaction, and now that she had started to doubt those things about herself, her course was far from clear.

Emma managed to put food on the table for everyone, although when it was time to eat she was barely hungry.  The knot in her stomach making the not particularly appetising broth seem even less appealing.  But despite her disinterest in its contents, she kept her eyes placed firmly on her bowl, not risking a look across the table at Killian.

She could feel that he was watching her closely, however, and while in most circumstances she would have bristled under the close scrutiny of another in this situation she found that the most difficult thing was not to give away just how much she didn't mind his gaze settling on her.

“I’m glad to see that you are feeling better, Henry,” Killian said, warmly, as Henry reached for another piece of bread.

“I am, and I will be glad to get back to school, Mr Jones.”

“Well.  We’ll just see,” Emma added, quickly.  As glad as she was for Henry’s recovery, she wanted to keep him at home a while longer, purely for selfish reasons.  With no Henry to occupy her day, even with his complaints regarding boredom, she would have no reason to stay on the farm during the day and right at that moment she wasn’t entirely certain just what time spent in the field with Killian might provoke.

The feeling of unease in her own mind only continued to grow as dinner was finished and cleared away.  Killian took his leave of Emma and Henry and she could barely find enough voice to wish him an overly polite goodnight.

Henry may have considered himself fully recovered from his illness, but the haste with which he fell asleep, following a rather prolonged bout of coughing, suggested that he may have been unduly optimistic.  Emma wished that she could be as certain of a positive outcome to anything at all, but her thoughts were morose and unpleasant.

After far too long telling herself she should abandon thinking for the night and retire to her bed, she came to a decision.

Killian had, after all, stated that he would welcome her questions although at the time Henry was her more pressing concern.  Now she wished to be free of the constant back and forth on whether she was right to put her faith in Killian and the only way she could see to do that was to prove once and for all that this part of her, the part which craved his company and his approval and, when it came down it, the man himself, was completely and utterly wrong.

She would listen to his tale, measure up the weight of it, and then she would know.

Emma’s nerve nearly failed her as she approached the little hut because this time she couldn’t concoct some excuse for being there, some matter she needed his assistance with that wouldn’t wait until morning.

But she kept her resolve and knocked, quickly, on the door once she reached it.  She could hear the sound of Killian moving around inside in response and wondered what kind of greeting she would receive.  In the end it proved to be confusion on Kilian’s part, he squinted at her worriedly as the door opened.

“Is Henry unwell?” he asked.

“No.  No more so than he was earlier.  He is resting.”  There was an awkward pause while Emma gathered her thoughts.  “No, in truth it’s you have to come to see regarding some…other matters.  May I enter?”

Killian nodded and stepped aside and it was only once she was over the threshold that she realised that the last time she had been here was the night of the beating, the night she’d kissed Killian.  And while his bruises may have healed the confusion that had been wrought on her own mind by the drama of the night had not yet cleared.

Emma steeled herself and tried to gather her thoughts.  She was here now, and she was here to get to the heart of the matter.  “I wish to know about Lacey,” Emma announced, her words sounding far too loud in the small space and her hands clasped primly in front of her.  She realised, from the expression on Killian’s face, that she must appear as though she had come here to judge him.

And perhaps she had, although not in the way he expected.

“Ah.”  If she expected a tumbling confession, then clearly she was not to get one.  Killian closed the door and seemed to be gathering up his thoughts. 

“Will you sit, Emma?” He indicated the bed with his hand and Emma shook her head vigorously. 

"Well then, ah...hmm..." Killian appeared flummoxed by her question and, while her appearance in his sleeping quarters may have been somewhat sudden, surely he must have expected she would one day ask him about the matter he had been so anxious to hide.

Killian's reticence made Emma slightly frustrated and she sighed, loudly enough that it caught Killian’s attention and he turned to look at her immediately.

“You think I am being evasive,” he said, somewhat accusatorially and she couldn’t exactly refute the statement, because it was, indeed, how she felt in that moment.

In the hopes of smoothing a path forward she murmured “I merely wished to have the matter settled, once and for all.”

“I understand…just…I wish to know how you came to hear about the name in the first place?” 

“The…women, the belles, from the saloon, they asked Miss Blanchard to teach them to read and she wanted me there for, well…”  Emma realised she was, perhaps, not managing to explain the situation particularly succinctly, but Killian, for whatever reason, interjected anyway.

“To read, that seems…well, it’s of no mind now I suppose.”

“It was the French Belle who wanted me to pass on Lacey’s greeting.”  At that, Killian’s eyes suddenly shifted to Emma and he looked at her sharply.

“Then you have met her.”

“Who?”

“The French Belle, she is…was, I suppose.  Lacey.  Milah’s lady’s maid.”

“She lost her position when her employer was killed?” Emma asked, even more curious now about the circumstances under which the girl came to work at the saloon.

“Aye.  Well, as I understand it Gold said he had no use for a lady’s maid and so she was let go.”

“She couldn’t travel elsewhere to seek employment?”

Killian shrugged, and looked awkward.  “I do not know the pertinent details.  At the time, I had my own troubles.”

“Yes.  Of course.”  Emma felt a little chastened, but still none the wiser as to why the girl felt so much enmity towards Killian.  “She blames you though, for the accident?”

“Maybe.”  Killian seemed dismissive of that notion which led Emma to wonder why else the girl was so ready to lay blame at his feet.

And then she realised.  “She thought you would marry her.” 

Killian looked a little shocked at her words, and Emma couldn’t tell if that was due to her unearthing the truth of the matter, or whether he considered it to be such an outlandish idea in the first place. 

“You said that you made…arrangements, with the girl.  Regarding her employer.  Did she believe you to be…interested?”  Emma tried to speak as delicately as possible, but it was difficult and she disliked the dance it required, far preferring blunt speech.

Killian sighed heavily and sat down on the bed.  “I do not in truth quite understand what she believed, before or after the accident.  But I do know that when I did, in fact, make her an offer…I suppose you’d call it such, anyway.  When I did approach her, she declined outright.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Emma blurted out.  “That she would take the employment she has now over…”

“Why?” Killian asked abruptly, turning to face her fully.  “Why is that so hard to believe?”

The one candle burning in the corner of the room left parts of his face in shadow and, with his brows knit together as they were, he looked almost angry.  But Killian’s words weren’t angry, they were simply astonished.  And Emma, for a moment, couldn’t fathom why that would be so.  Did he not understand what exactly her role was in the saloon?

But while she was struggling to understand his bafflement, it appeared that Killian came to understand why she had been so vehement in her denial of his story.  “Ah,” he said quietly.  “But you did.”

“Did what?”

“Accepted.  My offer.”

“I did.”  There was no denying the fact now.

“Well, now.  I’m sure your judgement is sound, but, perhaps you were not in possession of all the facts at the time.  For that, I am truly sorry.”

Emma felt like she should refute that statement, but it was probably a pointless exercise.  Either she was reckless in putting her faith in Killian, or he was unworthy of such and, in all honesty, she perhaps suspected that the truth lay somewhere in the middle and that were the facts to be laid out neither of them would appear in a good light.

Better to leave some things unexamined.

“It is too late for me to recant now,” she said, briskly.  “And I do have it on good authority that the madam at the saloon does not take married women, anyway.”

Her statement had been intended to lighten the mood a little, or at least provide a distraction, but it seemed to merely draw Killian deeper into his thoughts.  Emma realised there was more to the story than a simple case of a girl full of resentment.

“What happened next?” she asked, trying to keep her voice as even as possible.

“Next?”

“After she refused your offer.”

“Well, you know.  She is…employed in the saloon and, I am given to understand, quite the asset to her employer.”

There was something bitter behind his statement and Emma wondered just what he’d left out.  “Which means?”

“Mrs Mills the, uh, madam you speak of.  She was…pleased, I suppose, with her new girl.  And so she rewarded me for what she termed my help in ensuring the success of her business.”

“How?”

“She paid me,” Killian replied, his eyes again focused on the wall in front of him and not at all on Emma herself.  “She said it was my reward and, although I explained that I had nothing to do with Lacey’s decision, she insisted.  And I took it, as ashamed as I was…am…I took the money because I knew we needed it.  I gave it Liam, hoped he would force me to return it I suppose.  But he was a very practical man, and kept it.  I suppose he had something in mind for it.”

It was the flick of Killian’s eyes towards her as he said those last words that made Emma’s heart sink as she put the final pieces of the puzzle together.  “You sold one woman,” she said.  “And he bought another.”

Killian didn’t attempt to refute her statement, for which Emma was thankful.  At last the truth was out and the frightening thing about it all, the part which made Emma feel suddenly crowded in the small hut, was that it didn’t change the way she thought about Killian.

“I have to go now,” she said, pushing past Killian out the door into the inky black night and across the yard before her eyes could adjust, hoping that there was nothing out there that might trip her up and leave her sprawled out in the dirt.

She entered the cabin with her heart pounding in her chest, and even the sight of Henry still resting somewhat comfortably in his bed did not calm her completely.

Questioning Killian had been intended to bring her some peace, some resolution, but it had done quite the opposite and now she was stuck with the thoughts that crowded her mind, the ones which told her she should have stayed in the hut.

Quietly, she walked into the other room and readied herself for bed.  Sleep came, but not easily and not until after she had spent some time wondering if Killian was faring any better at finding rest than she was.

In the morning she allowed Henry to resume his milking duties but insisted that he stay home from school for one more day.  He protested at first, but became more resigned when Killian told him to listen to his mother.

For Emma herself, Killian had no advice and he remained silent, merely watching her.  For what, Emma wasn’t entirely certain.  She’d made no outburst at his revelations the night before, and was, carefully, maintaining her composure.  The effort of doing so was exhausting and she was glad when Killian left for the field.

Henry was less argumentative, or, perhaps, more resigned to his fate than he had been the day before and was seemingly happy to read to Emma as she made bread.  He didn’t appear troubled and so it took Emma by surprise as he remarked, out of the blue when she was attempting to make one usable candle out of two that were merely stubs, “Do you think you’ll talk to Mr Jones again?”

“I have been speaking to him.”

“No, but…not really, mama.”

Emma disliked Henry’s suggestion that she was deliberately ignoring Killian.  She quite clearly wasn’t, she just didn’t know what it was she wanted to say to him at present.

No doubt Killian understood that.

Or, at least, she hoped he did.

“Sometimes there’s no need for idle chatter, Henry.”

Henry screwed up one side of his face and looked as though he wanted to argue with that statement, but decided against it.  Emma was almost wishing he would say something, because she would have welcomed the opportunity to state her position on the matter once and for all. 

But it would not have made any difference to what Killian thought of her now, and it was best not to bring Henry into their…well she could hardly term it an argument, because there had been no arguing.  In fact there’d been nothing since Emma had merely turned heel and run from the hut the night before.

She had acted rashly and now all she was left with were her doubts. 

Henry’s book provided enough of a distraction for both of them that there were no further discussions of whether or not Emma and Killian would speak to each other again.

And Emma was determined that she would make a concerted effort over dinner and would show Henry that whatever he thought he had witnessed was not anything to worry about; it was simply a moment in which she had been distracted by other matters.

 

Killian returned from the field with a rabbit for dinner, which he presented to Emma without much fanfare.  She made sure to thank him warmly but something felt wrong, forced, like they were playing at their roles for Henry’s sake and Emma became self-conscious, turning away quickly.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“I’m sorry.  I’m just a little…tired,” she muttered, aware that it was a poor excuse.

“It’s understandable.  After everything you’ve been through.”  Emma looked over one shoulder in time to see Killian give her a small smile, one that looked tight and forced and made her heart feel tight as well.  She needed to do better, or Henry was going to ask her more questions for which she didn’t have an answer.

Despite her resolution to act as though everything was fine, Emma found it harder to put on a brave face and, instead, retreated into her own head finding it simpler to wall herself away rather than attempt to bridge the gap that grew wider all the time.

Emma was glad when dinner was finished and she could stop pretending that she wasn’t at all affected by Killian’s presence, only being left to her own thoughts was worse.  She was wallowing and she knew it and in the end the only option seemed to be to repeat her actions from the night before and seek out Killian’s company.

This time she took a lamp with her as she crossed the yard and knocked on the door of the hut.  She expected that Killian would be surprised by her arrival, that he would shuffle awkwardly out of her way as she entered, and that he would frown and look at the ground as she stated her purpose for being there.  Assuming, that is, that she somehow found the words to express just what that was when her own mind was barely certain.

But none of that happened, because there was no answer to her knock.  Killian did not appear, and all around the yard remained quiet and still.

Emma wasn’t certain what to do.  The sensible course of action would surely be to return to her cabin and her own bed before she could be discovered.  There was no reason to linger if Killian was elsewhere and it gave her the opportunity to, perhaps, save face.

Yet Emma couldn’t find it in herself to leave. The notion that something had happened to Killian was one that she couldn’t shake and, knowing what had happened here previously, she was loathe to leave without at least checking that he wasn’t injured, or worse.

Emma pushed the door to the hut open and held up the lamp in front of her.  It revealed nothing untoward, no Killian laying on the ground.  No Killian at all.

Emma couldn’t comprehend exactly where he might be.  Since she had been on the farm Killian’s presence, lurking or otherwise, had been a constant.  Or, at least, she felt as though this was so.  His unexplained absence was troubling, and she wasn’t entirely sure whether it was evidence of some foul play, or merely a confirmation that she had managed to successfully remove herself from Killian’s life.

Emma walked further into the hut, and, uncertain of what to do for the best, she sat down to wait for him, hoping that he wouldn’t see this as some gross invasion of his privacy.

The minutes ticked by, marked only by the flickering of the lamp she had placed on the floor, and Emma nearly reversed her decision several times as Killian did not return.  She had no notion of exactly where he might have gone, there were no jobs that she could of which would require his attention in the darkness, and she grew increasingly agitated wondering what could have prompted such unusual behaviour.

Although, she supposed, she had very little experience of Killian’s behaviour against which to measure his actions.  Perhaps this was a regular occurrence?  Perhaps she should accept that she did not know the man she’d married and her attempts to change that fact were doomed to failure?

Perhaps it was a simply the case that, for all his fine words and flattery, when it came down to it Killian Jones had very little interest in Emma herself?

Everything puzzled Emma in a way that made her uncomfortable, and then Killian entered the hut, stopping short as he spied her sitting on his bed, and Emma was uncomfortable in an utterly different way.

“Why are you here?” Killian asked, his voice gruff and thick, the tone lacking its usual warmth.

“I came to speak to you.”

“Well I wasn’t here.  Is it an urgent matter or can we just wait until morning?”  With that he lifted his hand and took a drink from the bottle he was clutching.

“You’ve been to the saloon,” Emma said, wondering why on earth the possibility hadn’t occurred to her earlier.  She felt foolish now, imagining some terrible fate for Killian when he’d merely taken the opportunity to seek more hospitable company.

Killian seemed to take Emma’s words as an accusation, and, perhaps, they were.  “Sometimes,” he replied, the sneer in his voice obvious, “I get to do what I want.”

“I never suggested otherwise.”  Emma’s heart started pounding a little faster.  Her instincts told her to flee, that this situation could only get worse, but Killian stood between her and the door and the idea of pushing past him right then was less than appealing.

She’d have to stand her ground.

“No,” he agreed, sounding resigned.  “No, you wouldn’t even have an opinion on the matter, would you Emma?  Or, rather, your opinion of me hardly matters anymore.”

“I think you are being a little unfair.”

“Perhaps.  But how would I know when you won’t say anything to me?”

“Well it’s very difficult to speak to someone who isn’t actually here.”  Emma felt the rising tide of anger swell inside her chest.  It was one thing when she thought that he had misinterpreted her retreat the night before, but this was different.  This made her want to stand and defend that wall she kept around herself with her last breath.

“So you are vexed.”

“I am…concerned,” Emma said, choosing her words carefully, “That your decision to spend time in the saloon speaks volumes for your character.  More than your contrition about the fate of the French Belle did last night.”

“I thought as much.  You cannot help but judge me for what has happened in the past.”

Emma tutted.  “This has nothing to do with the past.  I am just…surprised at your actions tonight.  After everything it appears that your fine words were just that.”

Killian’s expression could best be termed confused.  He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, and took another drink.  “You think I went there for the women?”

“Really I don’t know what to think…”  Emma’s voice trailed off, embarrassed by the idea of accusing him outright, and unsettled by the fact he seemed so offended by the notion when there was no denying where he had been, no denying he had at least a passing acquaintance with more than one of the belles, no denying that they were married now, whether he liked the fact or not.  Emma wasn’t certain whether she had any right to declare herself an injured party in the matter, or whether it really had anything to do with her at all, but she found it all deeply upsetting nonetheless.

Not for the first time she wished that she hadn’t been quite so reckless when she agreed to this marriage.

Killian shrugged.  “It doesn’t matter anyway.  None of it bloody matters.”

Emma wasn’t certain whether he was referring to her or to where he had spent the evening.  Either way, she was feeling more frustrated with the situation the longer it continued on.  She sighed, perhaps a little too loudly as the sound made Killian’s head turn sharply, his eyes flashing.

“You think it’s so easy for me?  You think I can just walk in there and be accepted?  You think any of those women will so much as smile at me after they know how my history with their compatriot?”  He took a step towards Emma and raised his left arm.

“You think that they want this anywhere near them?  Or worse, to see what’s beneath?”  Killian dropped his arm, the hook falling to his side.  He sounded tired now, and the fight had gone out of his voice. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you but my life is not quite the picnic you imagine it to be.”

Emma opened her mouth to refute the notion that she had any such idea, but she stopped herself quickly.  There was something else behind Killian’s words, something broken and sad, something more than just a desperate attempt to rid himself of any blame for his actions. 

“You believe that you are that…hideous?” Emma asked, her curiosity getting the better of her anger.

“I believe what I see, Emma.”  Killian’s brows knit together.  “It’s hard to ignore the looks of others.”

“Show me.”

Killian looked at her in confusion, and Emma repeated her instruction.  “Show me.  I’m your wife and if, as you said once before, you didn’t marry me simply so I could be your farmhand then let me…just show me.”

There was a hint of a challenge in her words and she wondered if Killian would simply back down.  Certainly there was a moment when his eyes flicked to the hook on his left arm and she thought that surely he would refuse her demand.

But he met her eyes again as he began undoing the straps that held the contraption the hook was attached to.  When it was sufficiently loosened, he pulled the whole thing off and threw it on the bed.

Emma stood for a moment waiting to see what would happen next, but Killian shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot and didn’t make any move to uncover the stump of his arm from where it lay covered by his sleeve.

She realised that she’d have to take some action herself.  Stepping forward she took the bottle from Killian’s hand and set it down beside the lamp.  Next, Emma pushed the jacket off Killian’s shoulders and pushed it down so it fell to the floor as well.  Then she began unbuttoning his shirt.

The whole time Killian remained still, no doubt watching her movements although Emma didn’t risk lifting her eyes to check.  It was better, she thought, if she remained focused on the task at hand and not the man.

When the buttons were all undone she pushed his suspenders off his shoulders and then followed with his shirt.  She felt the tension in his arm before she turned to take her first look at the stump that remained, the shiny, puckered skin of the scars left behind and the space where a hand should be.

Carefully Emma ran her hand down his forearm, through the dark hair that grew there, and then along the scars.  She kept the pressure from her fingers light but Killian hissed at her touch all the same.

“Am I hurting you?” she asked, not removing her hand completely but only leaving one finger touching his skin.

“No.  I just…no.”  Killian sounded less than comfortable, his voice high and tight.  Emma glanced at him and smiled and he returned it with one that was barely the press of his lips together.

Emma continued on, investigating the ridge of skin that formed the end of his left arm.  Killian shuffled his feet again and turned slightly, almost, but not quite, twisted out of her grasp.

It was clear that Killian was uncomfortable with her touch and she didn’t know quite the right way to tell him that it didn’t matter.  That she could deal with the surface far easier than she could with what lay beneath.

But words were never Emma’s specialty and she was worried she’d merely say the wrong thing.  It was best to stick to action.

She moved her hand further up Killian’s arm, away from the stump and just kept up her movements, the slow brush of her fingertips.  Emma’s left hand came up and repeated the same pattern on Killian’s right arm, enjoying the touch of warm skin.

It was like being under a spell.  Killian swayed towards her, close enough that Emma could feel the heat of his body, his breath against her cheek.  But he made no move to touch her, or remove himself from her ministrations and she began to feel a little bolder.

Emma stilled her hands, and then removed them entirely grasping instead the hem of Killian’s undershirt.  “Lift,” she commanded, and he raised his arms obediently with far less complaint than Henry would have offered.  The difference, though, was that Emma felt far from maternal in her present circumstances.

“What are you doing?” Killian asked in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, as Emma tossed his undershirt onto the bed.

“What I want.  Sometimes I get to do that.”

Killian said nothing that disputed that assertion, and she continued her exploration, tracing the outline of the hair that dusted his chest with her fingers.  She ran her hand down his side, wondering if he’d be at all ticklish, and then traced the skin of his abdomen.

“Emma…” Killian said, in a tone that could have been a warning or a plea.  But she was far too gone to stop now and what had started as the simple notion of showing Killian that she really was far more sympathetic than he believed her to be, had become something else entirely.  More to the point, it was something she was enjoying immensely.

Keeping up her movements she risked a glance at Killian.  In the dim light his eyes were almost black as he watched Emma closely.  It was a little intoxicating being the object of someone’s blatant admiration in such a way and it spurred her on.

She reached down and brushed the front of Killian’s trousers, watching his face the whole time and enjoying the way his eyelashes fluttered and his lips parted at her touch.  She thought that he might say something again, might ask her to stop or warn her away.  But he didn’t.

Not until she unbuttoned his trousers and slipped her hand inside.  Then he uttered a sound deep in his throat, a groan that was halfway between pleasure and pain.

“Sshh,” Emma whispered.  “It’s alright.”

“Emma,” Killian breathed, as Emma found him warm and firm against her hand.   She thought that she’d trade all the fine words he could shower her with just to hear him say her name that way again.

At first her touch was gentle, a little unfocused and exploratory.  She watched Killian carefully, judging her success by the set of his features, by the way he closed his eyes and pressed his teeth against his bottom lip.

After a while she encircled his hardness with her hand and found a rhythm that made Killian swallow visibly before he groaned and his face moved very close to her own.  Emma thought that he might try to kiss her in that moment, but instead he dropped his head to her shoulder.  His arms remained at his sides and Emma had to admit that she was glad of that; she wasn’t certain if she enjoyed having control over Killian, or just the fact that she was allowing herself to be rid of her usual restraint.  Either way, the result was the same and Emma’s heart beat faster in pure pleasure.

Killian twisted his head and his mouth found her neck, pressing hot and open against her skin.  He grunted wordlessly as she tightened her grip and sped up her movements, up and down, her wrist twisting in response to the push of Killian’s hips against her hand.

And then she felt the tension in his body rise, the press of his shoulders against hers as he rocked forward seeking more contact and, once again, he said her name, branding it against her own skin.

Emma felt the moment he found his release in her hand and she stilled, waiting until Killian came back to himself.  His head felt heavy against her shoulder, but she found she didn’t mind in the least, any more than she minded the awkward position they found themselves in, her hand down the front of his trousers, sticky and warm against his softening flesh.

“I am…” Killian began, lifting his head.

Emma cut him off.  “You’re my husband,” she said, although she was still uncertain just what that meant, or what, exactly, the night’s events would mean when the morning came.  She did know, however, that she felt a little more certain of her own mind now, and that the idea her heart was playing tricks on her mind was one she could dismiss with more assurance.

For a long moment they simply watched each other, a little more warily than previously, each waiting for the other to break first.  Emma withdrew her hand, and wiped it surreptitiously on her apron.

She was still just as lost for words as she had been earlier.  “Goodnight, Killian,” she said, and then, carefully she stepped around him, lifting up the lamp as she did so, and left the hut.  Whether Killian watched her leave she couldn’t be entirely certain, but she believed he did, and the thought was one that pleased her greatly.

**Thanks for reading!**


	19. Chapter 19

Emma had left him, wrecked and wanting, once again in the darkness in more ways than one.  For a long moment, Killian remained still, staring into the gloom surrounding the door through which Emma had just departed.

Only this time, it didn’t feel so much like she was running away from him.  Although he could hardly blame her if she was, certain that what had transpired between them had not been Emma’s intention when she first came to him that night.

Or had it?  He couldn’t tell; his mind dulled by drink and the last remnants of his waning lust.  Eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, Killian managed to put himself somewhat to rights and then he tried to find some peace.

His mind may have felt heavy, but it would not be quieted, intent on replaying every aspect of the night’s events.  He remembered the ill-advised trip to the saloon, the time spent at the bar under the watchful gaze of Madam Mills’ manservant, Lancelot, and the rather more reproachful looks thrown by whichever belle happened to pass him at the time.

It was only the fortuitous appearance of an old acquaintance who was happy to pay that had afforded Killian the opportunity to quench his thirst at all and, in hindsight, the drink had hardly been worth the scorn he’d endured.  And then he returned to find himself upbraided by Emma, in a strange confrontation that had soon turned to comfort, or perhaps seduction.

Killian had heard of women who would debase themselves in order to prevent their men from straying, but it wasn’t the kind of insecurity he would easily attach to the woman who, more often than not, acted as though she was perfectly capable of carrying on as if he never existed and who might indeed prefer it if that were the case.

It was puzzling, and his mind was not fit for any deep thoughts at the moment.  Mostly he just wished that he had taken the opportunity to kiss her, to press his lips to Emma’s and feel the rest of the world melt away.  But now, all he could do was sleep and hope that the morning brought more clarity.

It did not; only a head made heavy by the previous night’s drink and Henry speaking rather loudly and urgently about the milking awaited him when he opened his eyes again.

“What is it, lad?”

“I’ve been sent to help with the milking.  Mama said if I feel alright after that, I can go to school.  So I want to do it.  Please, Mr Jones?  Can we do it now?”

Killian felt that in a perfect world he would have been given the grace to seek out Emma and ascertain her feelings regarding the previous evening, prior to being co-opted by Henry.  He felt a little anxious, wondering just exactly what was awaiting him, and in no mood to prolong the feeling by milking the cows instead of just facing up to whatever what happening in the cabin.

But Henry did not look like he’d be easily dismissed.  “Well, fine.  But at least have the decency to allow a man to rise before you accost him about bloody cows!” he grumbled, realising too late that his words were a little harsh as he watched Henry blink slowly.

“I just…Mama said I should fetch you,” Henry stammered out, making Killian feel even worse.  Of course the boy was here at the behest of his mother, she’d no doubt assumed that the longer Killian was occupied with chores, the less time she would have to face him over the breakfast table.

"No, it's fine lad."  Killian sat up a little further then realised that his brace and hook were still where Emma had placed them the night before. Unwilling to present Henry with the sight of his left arm, he stayed where he was, leaving it covered by the rough, wool blanket. 

“You go and wait in the barn.  I’ll be right there.”

Henry looked like he wanted to say something else, perhaps protest his innocence again, but he held his tongue and shuffled back out of the hut.

Killian did his best to make himself presentable, and joined Henry in the barn where he was deep in conversation with the white cow.

“Sharing all your secrets, are you Henry?” Killian asked, and Henry jumped in surprise.

“No…no, Mr Jones.  I was just saying, that she’d have to wait…until you got here.”  Realising that his words might be construed as an accusation, Henry stopped, and began to backtrack.  “Which she’s used to, so that’s probably fine.”

“Well, let’s not keep her waiting then, shall we?”

They set about the task, coaxing the cow into place and fetching the pail and stool.  It was all mindless work, something Killian had completed more times than he cared to remember over the years, which left his thoughts free to wander down more pleasant paths.

And he couldn’t help but let his mind drift back to the events of the night before and the touch of Emma’s hands.  Had he been selfish or foolish or was he really only a bystander in some game that Emma had devised on her own?

He couldn’t tell any longer; his memories of the night before now hazy, blurred by the liquor he’d drunk and heavily laced with the desire that had burned so brightly.

But trying to untangle exactly what had happened was a fruitless exercise now, and attempting to discern what might await him in Emma’s presence that morning was an even bigger waste of time.  More to the point, allowing himself to lose focus meant that he missed the moment when Henry managed to startle the cow who then swayed sideways and knocked Henry off the stool.  It was only by luck that she didn’t kick the pail over with the first stamp of her foot and Killian, brought back to the present, was able to reach it in time.

“Why’d Snow White do that?” Henry asked, sounding exasperated and a little winded.

“Who knows how the vagaries of the female mind work, Henry?”  He shrugged in an offhand way, as though his comment wasn’t designed to lead Henry into disclosing the state of Emma’s mind that morning, perhaps by mentioning whether the table still had its surface intact.  But the boy did not oblige.

“Snow White’s a cow, though, Mr Jones.  I don’t think they’re supposed to want to hurt people.  That’s true, isn’t it?”

Killian hadn’t really wanted to have a conversation about the cow’s motives as it was, and he had no desire to be designated the sole authority on the creatures.  “You’re probably right, Henry,” he murmured, which left the boy gaping a little, uncertain as to how he suddenly arrived in such a position.

“Let’s just get on with it.  And then you can get to school.”

Henry brightened considerably at the notion of being allowed to leave the farm and resume his studies and, righting the milking stool, he tackled the now considerably more placid cow once again.

This time Killian took far more care to watch how Henry handled himself, and they were soon finished without any more disturbances by either cow.

But, as anxious as Killian had been to see Emma and find out where he stood this morning, now that breakfast time drew near he found his appetite waning.  It wasn’t just the possibility that he would be unwelcome in the cabin that halted his progress across the yard, but the notion that, perhaps, it would be as though nothing had changed that made him pause and re-evaluate whether he even wanted to see Emma again.

Perhaps it was better to carry some hope rather than have it all dashed in front of him.

Henry had no such qualms and, having proved that he was sufficiently hale and hearty to go to school, he ran ahead to the cabin and barged through the door leaving Killian no choice but to follow.  The last thing he wanted was to be accused of lurking in the barn and avoiding Emma.  Unless, of course, that was what she was hoping for.

Killian cursed the fact that, no matter what he did or didn’t do, the potential for somehow making the wrong move seemed more prevalent than ever.  He was second-guessing every decision wondering, exactly, what it was Emma wanted from him.

And when he followed Henry into the cabin, just in time to hear the boy’s recount of the cow’s temper tantrum, he found that he was none the clearer now that he was actually face to face to Emma.

Or, rather, she was turned towards Henry and only glanced briefly at Killian as he entered and, although he hadn’t been expecting a warmer welcome than he’d received on previous mornings, he felt that there should be some visible sign of what had occurred the previous night.

But there wasn’t.  There was only his own increasing agitation which made him twitchy and worried, his fingers drumming against his leg as he stood, waiting for something that was never likely to come.

Henry’s story completed, Emma issued some instructions regarding setting the table, but continued to all but pretend that Killian wasn’t present.  He took a seat and waited to see what happened next.

It was Henry who placed the egg in front of him, but Emma who passed him the coffee she’d made, placing the cup on the table with a smile, before taking her own seat.

They ate almost in silence, Henry’s occasional comments regarding his forthcoming day at school the only conversation around the table.  Killian tried to tell himself that he wasn’t waiting for the boy to leave so he could have Emma to himself, but failed utterly.

And when, indeed, Henry had been dispatched to wash the breakfast dishes, Killian remained nervously in place, uncertain what was required of him.

That was, after all, the heart of the problem.  The previous night Emma’s refrain, the one she’d repeated, was that he was her husband.

Killian was just unsure, now more than ever, exactly what that meant.  Specifically, what it meant to Emma. 

He had heard, of course, of women whose sole aim was to entrap men with the promise of sexual favours.  They were patently past the whole entrapment scenario, but there was no guarantee that she was not, in some manner, hoping to control him, although for what gain he had no idea.  There had been brief moments when he’d watched her playing a role, the seductress rising from the bath being the most notable one.  Was it really such a far-fetched idea that the previous night may have been nothing more than another?

Killian remained silently waiting for something he couldn’t even name while Emma bustled around in front of him, re-stoking the fire and repeatedly brushing her hands against her apron.  And then, somewhat abruptly it seemed to Killian, lost as he was in his own thoughts, she sat down at the table again and said “You are…quiet this morning.”

For a moment he thought she might be speaking to Henry again, although it was not a statement that could, by any means, be applied to her son.  Startled, he lifted his head from where he’d been examining the grain of the table, and looked straight into the clear, green eyes studying his face with interest.

It was decidedly disconcerting to suddenly find himself the centre of attention, once again.  It hadn’t been a pleasant experience the night before…or, rather, it hadn’t and then it had been.  Intensely pleasurable.

Mostly Killian was still confused, and suspected that most of the fault for this lay with himself.  Why was it so damn difficult to find a way to speak his mind to Emma?

Suddenly aware that he hadn’t yet spoken, Killian scrambled to gather his thoughts.  “I…am…have been, I suppose, thinking.”

Emma nodded, and looked to the side.  Killian wondered what was going through her mind at that precise time.  It would be all so much easier if he could be granted one brief glimpse of what she wanted from him.  And, although he knew that it was unlikely he would ever be able to give her the things she needed, the things she deserved, he still felt as though uncovering her true desires would be better than its opposite.

“I would like to think that you are not…thinking the worst of me,” Emma said, suddenly.  “But I fear that is not the case.”

Killian felt called to account, even though Emma could hardly have been privy to his thoughts, any more than he had been able to listen in on hers.  And yet he had, indeed, been wondering as to her motivations and felt the shame of doing so rise to colour his face.

“I fear I am a little…flummoxed…by…by…”  Killian halted, having realised that stammering away was hardly doing himself any favours.  He gave up hoping to reach the end of the sentence and settled for waiting to see what, if any, reaction Emma had.

She gave him a smile, only the barest raise of her lips, but there was something warm in her eyes that made Killian regret his previous less than charitable thoughts.

“I meant what I said last night,” Emma said, softly.

“That…I am your husband?”

“Well.  Yes.  That is…”  Now it was Emma who seemed lost for words.  “But mostly that I was doing what I wanted.” 

Her smile faded a little, and the frown was back on her face again.  “If that is your concern, I mean.”

“No.  No I was…”  Henry entered the cabin again, with a great clatter of the door, and Killian’s words faded from his lips.  He had been about to confess that his real, and great, concern was what exactly it was Emma wanted _now_ , but the moment was lost.

“I’ll be ready right away, Mama,” Henry said, returning the dishes he was carrying and picking up the jacket that lay across his bed.

“Good,” Emma replied, before addressing her next remarks to Killian, brisk and business-like now that they had an audience.  “I said that I would walk Henry to school.  As it’s his first day back.”

“Yes.  Of course.”

Killian watched as Emma stood and removed her apron, disappearing into the bedroom and re-appearing with her bonnet in place and her own coat held in her arms.  “Are you ready to go, Henry?”

“Yes, Mama.”  The boy nearly flew out the door, although he stopped and turned in the doorway.  “Goodbye, Mr Jones.”

“Goodbye, Henry….Emma.”  Emma merely nodded in response and Killian watched them leave, still sitting at the table as though waiting for someone to join him.

Only now there was no one left on the farm who might turn up and gently prod him into action.  It was a role that had always been occupied by Liam who’d seemed to have the knack of knowing just what to say to pull Killian out of the dark doldrums he so often found himself drifting through.

He hadn’t felt quite this uncertain about the future since the terrible time when he and Liam found themselves alone in the world; mother dead, father all but lost to them.  Only then he’d had Liam and his stories of adventure in another land, of how they’d make their own way, find a better life and finally be the men their father couldn’t.

That hope had been dashed the moment he’d seen his brother laid out cold.  And, as much as he wanted to believe that it was now Emma who kept him buoyed up when sinking seemed to be his natural inclination, he couldn’t quite believe that she was so utterly prepared to throw in her own lot with his.

_You’re my husband._

The words haunted him in a way that his brother’s ghost refused to, twisting in his mind until he’d examined them from every angle and still couldn’t fathom what exactly Emma meant.  This was a new form of torture, worse, perhaps, than the agony of being so close to her, and yet held at arm’s length.  This felt like he had somehow won her under false pretences.

She couldn’t possibly believe that he could give her any of the things she had seemed to desire in her marriage to Liam; stability, security, a future for Henry.

And, suddenly, he realised exactly what it meant to be Emma’s husband, and what it was she wanted from him.  While he was grateful, more than grateful, for Emma…this was supposed to be someone else’s burden.  And he wasn’t certain he was up to shouldering it.

Even as melancholy gripped his mind, Killian knew that it was a wasted exercise spending more time pondering the question of Emma's true desires.  Work should have provided the ideal distraction, but all it did was throw up more problems which weighed Killian down and left him unwilling to leave his seat to go and face them.

The field, the one they’d been working on so hard, was almost cleared.  But that only meant there was more work ahead of them.  Killian would have given anything to be able to share this burden with his brother.  It had been the truth of their relationship that where Liam led, Killian followed.  This had, perhaps, left him lacking some of the skills he needed to forge a path of his own making. 

Or, perhaps, it was the case that Killian knew exactly what needed to be done, but was reluctant to show his hand and risk losing the, very necessary, help from Emma if she felt that he was trying to manipulate her.

It would never be his intention to do anything of the like, of course.  But circumstances being what they were the fact it had been William Smee who had also been a patron at The Queen of Hearts saloon the previous night, had proved fortuitous in more ways than one.  The man had been happy to buy Killian the alcohol he could barely afford himself, but had wanted to discuss a matter of business as recompense.

And what he proposed was not a terrible idea, assuming that Emma was likely to think the same.  Killian just wasn’t certain that he could assume anything where Emma was concerned.  Better to just…get on with the day’s work and not count down the minutes until she returned from school.

It was easier said than done, of course, and it was only after a prolonged period of back-breaking work out in the field that Killian found his mind settled and his thoughts now clear of Emma and what she may or may not want from him.  Just in time, in fact, for Emma to arrive and banish all desire for wielding the hoe completely.

Dressed in Liam’s cast-offs, she strode purposefully towards Killian and he couldn’t help but admire the figure she cut even in the ill-fitting and unfeminine outfit.  She stopped, short of where he was standing, and gave him an odd look.

“Have you been waiting for me?” she asked, resuming her long strides and reaching Killian’s side.  “I am sorry that I took so long.”

He had been waiting for her, of course, but not with the impatience of someone who was forced to do the work of two people as Emma seemed to suspect.

“Well, I am glad to have your company again,” he replied, but this only caused Emma to frown and Killian wondered what, exactly, in his words could have made her so concerned.

“I am here to work,” she stated, emphatically, as though Killian had somehow called into question her motives for being there.

“Of course,” he agreed, hoping to smooth things over.  “And Henry is settled at school?”

“Settled is hardly the term to use.  I suspect that Miss Blanchard will have a great deal of difficulty getting him to pay attention to his lessons.  He was so excited at the prospect of being reunited with his school book and, no doubt, his school friends, that he was unable to remain in his seat when I left.”

Killian chuckled, amused at the idea of Henry’s high-spirits and happy that the boy’s recovery seemed all but complete now.  Emma, however, looked sideways and then began another story altogether.

“In truth, though, it was the school mistress who delayed my return.  I think that perhaps she sees me as somewhat of a confidante.”  Emma seemed puzzled at the idea.  “And there have been some recent developments in her living circumstances which she finds a little disturbing.”

Killian waited, to see if there was more to the tale or whether Emma was sworn to keep Miss Blanchard’s secrets safe. 

“It seems,” she eventually continued, “That the sheriff has broken off his engagement and things are somewhat unsettled in the Spencer household as a result.  The girl’s father owns the neighbouring property and an alliance was very strongly wished for by Mr Spencer.”

“Miss Blanchard wished you to advise her on alternative living arrangements?”

“No.  Not at all.  She just merely wanted to…share the information, I believe, with a friendly party.  It is difficult in these circumstances, being the outsider when a family is in the grip of discord.”

“You have experience with such?”

“Unfortunately, yes.     

“Then I am sure that Miss Blanchard was glad to find such a sympathetic ear,” Killian added, fixing Emma with a smile he hoped made up for whatever slight she had perceived on her return.

It did not work quite as he had hoped.  “I am not sure that my sympathy was what was required, but I just wanted to be certain you knew that the reason for my delay this morning had nothing to do with…well.  That I was delayed, that was the point I was trying to make.”

Emma’s words, and the earnest manner in which she’d pressed her point, brought conversation to a halt.  Killian was tempted to try to find the cause of such a protest; he’d hardly rebuked her for tardiness after all.  But Emma clearly wanted some kind of response from him, and he was uncertain just what to give.

“You are watching me again,” Emma said, breaking the silence.

“I…”  Killian had no words to defend himself against the truth of her statement.  More to the point, he wasn’t even sure if he should.  Surely it was common decency to look the person with whom you were conversing in the eye.

“I am sorry, if I unsettled you,” Emma continued, quickly.  “But I meant what I said about…about doing what I want.  I just did not mean to make you…to make you uncomfortable.”

It was Emma who appeared uncomfortable in that moment, her eyes refusing to meet Killian’s and her hands twisting in front of her. 

“You did not make me uncomfortable,” Killian said, haltingly, as the words brought back the memories of what had happened and lit a flame of desire within him, bright and hot and he struggled not to simply give in to his baser urges.

The answer didn’t appear to satisfy Emma.  “But I have…you think less of me, somehow, perhaps?  Have found me to be unduly wanton and I have…”  She paused, and took a deep breath in.  “I have disappointed you.”

“You said I was your husband, yes?”

“I did.”

“Then…I have nothing to be disappointed about.” 

Killian realised that his words had, perhaps, been misconstrued as the frown once again graced Emma’s face.  He had hoped to reassure her, reasoning that finding herself a disappointment would resurrect unpleasant memories from her past.  But he had clearly done something else entirely and, in his confusion, he didn’t know how to make it right.

Emma wasn’t waiting for him to add anything else and simply nodded once, mumbled a “Good,” in his direction and took her hoe to the far part of the field she preferred, leaving Killian, once again, alone and regretting his choices.

For all that Emma thought he was able to throw fine words at any occasion, he did not seem to find the right ones to satisfy his wife.  And now he had, once again, left the subject of Mr Smee unmentioned.

His frustrations were soothed, somewhat, by the simple act of setting the hoe into the earth as hard as he could, but he couldn’t stop his gaze occasionally drifting to where Emma was doing the same and wishing that he’d done something differently; although what, exactly, that would be escaped him at present.

Killian was left with no choice but to continue on and wait for a further opportunity to either broach the subject of Mr Smee or to assuage Emma’s unfounded fears.  Or, better, to do both at once.  But none presented itself for some time and eventually frustration led him to halt work and walk over to where Emma was still valiantly battling the hardened earth.

Surely she would be receptive to the notion he held because, after all, it was what she wanted, wasn’t it?  Or, at least, it was what Killian surmised she wanted.  Security, a future.  All were wrapped up in the success of their enterprise, and therefore required a way to ensure the large amount of labour which farming seemed to require.  Emma would, surely, be more than happy to discuss the new opportunity that had presented itself and, Killian hoped, would be grateful that he had been able to see a way through their current difficulties.

She didn’t appear to notice his approach, the swing of her hoe uninterrupted as he came closer and, expecting her to turn to face him, he found that instead he had to dodge the hoe as it whistled past his ear a little too close for comfort.

Killian wasn’t certain whether it was his sudden movement or grunt of surprise that alerted Emma to his presence, but the hoe hit the ground at the same time as her head twisted around, her features registering alarm.

None of this seemed promising in as far as being able to finally smooth things over following their earlier, slightly rocky, conversation.

“Yes?” Emma asked warily, and Killian was immediately sorry for approaching her at all. 

“I just…there is a proposal I wish to discuss with you.”  His sudden nervousness made him sound overly formal, and completely at odds with their current setting.  It clearly did not do anything to set Emma at ease, and he watched her stand a little straighter and set her mouth in a grim, determined line.

“And now is the best time?”

“I…assumed that you would welcome the break from work.”  Killian hoped to sound light-hearted, but, if he had achieved such a feat it was almost impossible to tell from Emma’s expression, which continued to be closed and suspicious.

“No.  I am quite alright at the moment, thank you.”  Emma shifted the hoe in her hands, as though she was preparing to swing it again and simply waiting for Killian to give her the space to do so.

Killian opened his mouth to protest, but decided that, in this instance, he was better to admit defeat.  Bowing his head he retreated to where he had left his own hoe and began work anew, carefully ensuring that he was facing away from Emma lest the temptation to spend his time watching her strike again.

There was no further conversation for the rest of the morning and scant words exchanged when Emma offered him some bread around noon-time.  Once bitten, Killian was reluctant to bring up the subject of Mr Smee again and he remained almost completely occupied by the work in front of him until the time when Emma picked up her hoe and, without a backward glance, started to walk back towards the farm.

Killian hesitated, knowing that he should stay and continue working for as long as there was light.  But he was anxious to speak to Emma again, uncertain, exactly, what the cause of her earlier abruptness was and willing to risk further disdain in order to do so.

And so, without any further thought, he shouldered his hoe and set off after her.

Emma's pace was brisk; whatever had called her attention away from her work was clearly a pressing matter.  She was in the barn, standing her hoe against the wall by the time Killian caught up to her.

This time Emma watched his approach, no longer startled but still sporting the same wary expression as earlier.  

"Yes?" she prompted, as Killian drew nearer.

“I wondered if now was a better time…” he began, but Emma cut him off hastily.

“For this proposition of yours?”

“It’s…more of a proposal, an idea, if you like…something…something that I thought might be of…of…”  He was stammering; his words disjointed and nonsensical, he knew that much.  But his brain was elsewhere, disconnected from the tale he was trying to tell and concerned more with the way in which Emma eyed him so suspiciously, the words that she used, the way in which her body angled away from him but she never stopped watching his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, a little abruptly.  “I think you have perhaps misunderstood my intention.”

Emma frowned and, if anything, looked even more defensive than before. 

“For which I don’t blame you,” Killian continued, as gently as he could.

“And what exactly is it that you think I have misunderstood?”

“That I…”  Killian could see, clearly now, what had been troubling Emma but how to express such a thing to Emma momentarily escaped him.  “What it was that I wished to discuss with you.”

“If there is something troubling you then, please, do go ahead,” Emma replied, with barely concealed exasperation.

“Firstly, though, I would like to assuage your fears regarding what it is I expect from you.”  Killian took a moment to measure the reaction to his words on Emma’s face.  Her expression changed imperceptibly, if at all, but he pressed on anyway, anxious to get this over with.

“I would like to assure you that I don’t expect…I mean, I was very grateful…but I don’t expect that you will…”

“You are referring to last night,” Emma stated, breaking into Killian’s less than fluent speech.  He wished that he could give up on speech altogether; reach out, and offer her some comfort in his touch.  But the fear that she’d merely shrink back or, worse, acquiesce out of some misplaced notion of his own expectations kept him in check.

“I am, and I wish to say that it has not changed my, very real, regard for you.”  He hoped that would suffice, but Emma’s eyes went wide with astonishment before blazing, very quickly, with anger.

“I am glad that you have deigned to be so generous,” she spat at him, as her hand reached out and Killian wondered, for a moment, if she was reaching for the hoe in order to use it as a weapon.  “It is a rare thing in this world, to find a man so willing to readily accept the foibles of women.  It must have been such a terrible shock for you to realise just what depravities I was capable of committing.”

The sinking realisation that he had managed to achieve the opposite of what he’d set out to do washed over Killian.  “That’s not at all what I believe, Emma,” he implored, but his words did him no good now that Emma’s ire had been provoked.

“Then tell me, please, what on earth is behind the way in which you have been watching me all morning.  Are you afraid of what I might do to you again?”

“Do to me?  Emma, you don’t have to do anything.”

“Then tell me,” she hissed.  “Tell me what you are thinking because I am sick and tired of simply not knowing what it is you want from me.”

“Nothing that you aren’t prepared to give,” Killian replied, torn between reassuring Emma that he did not think less of her, and reassuring himself that her actions the night before had not been a desperate attempt on her part to please him in order to win his favour.   “It was true, wasn’t it Emma?  When you said that you were doing what you wanted?”

He could hear the pleading tone to his own voice, the one that made him sound as though he was little older than Henry; just a sad, lonely boy uncertain if he’d ever find happiness in the world.

“Of course,” Emma said, quietly.  “I wouldn’t lie to you, Killian.  Not about something like that.”

The tension dropped from Emma’s shoulders and she seemed smaller now, less like an angry cat ready to fight her way out of the corner she’d been backed into, and more like the woman who was so worried about being a disappointment.

“But perhaps, we have been lying to ourselves,” Killian murmured, stepping closer to Emma and then waiting to see what reaction this would prompt from Emma, whether she would take his encroachment into her space as a step too far, or whether she would allow him the small comfort of being so close to her.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because, Emma, we have been both so worried about the workings of the other’s mind that we have forgotten to take into our account our own desires.”

“And what is it that you desire?” Emma asked, her voice now little more than a whisper and her eyes dark in the gloom of the barn as she looked up at him through her lashes.

“A kiss.”  His voice was hoarse and his mouth felt suddenly dry as Killian waited for Emma’s response to his request.  There was every chance that this would merely send her running from him, that she would take his desire to touch her again as proof of her belief that he saw her as merely a convenient way to satisfy his own lust, less costly than the belles and already paid for by another woman’s fall.

Emma held still, and her eyes searched his face, finally settling, Killian thought, on his mouth.  “A kiss would be acceptable,” she said, and Killian decided that questioning the motive behind her acquiescence would be a fruitless exercise.  He leaned down and pressed his lips to Emma’s, gently as with as much tenderness as he felt able to convey.

He kept the kiss gentle, their lips the only part of their bodies connected although Killian itched to touch Emma, to pull her close and hold her.

It was Emma who moved first.  Killian felt her hand reach for the back of his neck, her fingers cool against the skin above the collar of his shirt.   He took that as an invitation and his hand found her waist, settling on the bunched up fabric of Liam’s shirt.

The kiss changed.  Emma’s lips parted and he felt her press more insistently as his own opened in response.  Their tongues met, joined in a languid caress.  Killian felt the familiar wash of desire course over him, but there was something unique to this encounter, something warm and familiar that had as much to do with the woman he was kissing as the fact it had been so long since anyone had wished to touch him so intimately.

But even so, he kept his left arm hanging at his side and the hook away from Emma.  The last thing he wanted was to ruin the moment with an unexpected injury and this moment, which seemed to go on and on, was something that Killian very much wanted to protect.

Emma, however, had other concerns.  She broke the kiss and, for a moment, Killian thought that he was about to be dismissed.  But Emma had no such notion, returning her lips to his after a moment and, if anything, kissing him with greater fervour than before.

He felt her fingers twist in the ends of his hair and her other hand came up to rest lightly against his shoulder blade, not quite pulling him towards her, but hardly pushing him away.

It was like she was anchoring him in place, and Killian discovered that it was a feeling he did not mind at all.

Emma was not so intent on remaining still, however, and Killian felt her step forward in the moment before he felt the warmth of her body as it pressed against his own.

The dam which had held his own desire in check suddenly burst and, without conscious thought, he mirrored her actions, enjoying the feel of Emma's body against his own and wishing that she wasn't currently swathed in so much rough fabric.

Still, any opportunity to touch Emma so intimately was not to be dismissed and Killian allowed himself a freer rein than he had the night before, his hand moving from her waist and pressing flat against the small of her back before drifting down to the curve of her arse.

Emma was exploring as well, in a far less tentative manner than Killian.  One hand remained gripping his hair but the other had pulled his shirt loose from his trousers and was now scratching lightly at the bare skin of Killian's back. 

She shifted her stance, legs parting and Killian felt his own body press forward into the space, a shudder of pure pleasure rolling down his spine as his cock made contact with the juncture of Emma’s thighs.  Even through the unforgiving woollen fabric he could feel the heat of her and his mind could think of nothing but his desire for more.

Even his previous notion of keeping the hook away from Emma was lost to the all-consuming need to simply touch more of her.  Killian pressed his left arm up between Emma and the wall of the barn, trapping her shoulder with his elbow and trying, desperately trying, to hold her closer.

A part of him wanted to catalogue each new sensation so he could recall these moments for all time, but desperation over-road any ideas of taking his time now and his movements became frantic, his hips rolling against Emma as one of her legs lifted, resting against his hip, allowing him to feel the full press of her breasts against his chest.

His senses now filled with nothing but Emma; her smell, the feel of her body against his, the way her hand tugged harder on his hair, urging him on.  The way she whispered his name as he pressed his lips against the skin of her neck.

The way in which he wanted nothing more than to show her, finally, how deep his devotion to her truly was. 

A noise from the cow in the stall behind him broke through his clouded mind and suddenly he was aware of everything that wasn’t right about the moment; the rough wood of the barn wall at Emma’s back, the smell of the animals and the dark shadows that surrounded them.  The fact that he wanted to give her more, be more for her.

In his mind, Killian could see the picture they must make and it reminded him uncomfortably of far too many things he had witnessed in his childhood, of a man who was so greedy that he would take and take and never give anything in return.

This, a fumble in a barn, wasn’t what he wanted for Emma.  And it wasn’t what he wanted for himself.  If he was truly to be a better man, if he was truly to be the husband Emma wanted then he would have to be satisfied with waiting until such time as he was allowed into her bed, until such time as she wanted him, body and soul, without reservation.

“We should…stop,” Killian said, breathless and broken and, for a moment, there was no response from Emma.  Only when she noticed that his movements had ceased, did she open her eyes and regard him coolly.

“This is not what you want?” Emma asked, sounding puzzled and a little breathless.

“It is…not how I wish this to be,” he replied, as he slowly disentangled himself from Emma, his body protesting the loss while his mind remained focused on what he would say next, how he would explain it all to the woman in front of him, whose face was already wearing an expression he’d seen countless times before. 

She thought she had disappointed him somehow, and the truth couldn’t be further from that.

But before he had time to elaborate, Killian heard Henry’s joyous shout from somewhere in the yard and Emma, looking startled, slipped around him and out of the barn before he had time to formulate another sentence.

Killian felt weary all of a sudden, the day’s events having been a rolling tide of hope and despair, and now he was, he believed, back to where he had begun with Emma believing that she had somehow failed him and no real opportunity to convince her otherwise.

He waited until he felt somewhat under control and then walked out into the yard to find that Henry and Emma had disappeared from sight.  He could hear the boy, excitement ringing out in his voice, but Killian felt no great desire to listen to his tales of the schoolyard just at that moment.

Instead he found the shotgun and started a long and fruitless search for rabbits, hoping that the offer of something tangible might mollify Emma long enough for him to attempt an explanation.

But in the end he returned to the farm empty-handed and to a disappointed Henry who feared he had missed an opportunity to shoot something.

“There was nothing,” Killian assured him, although Henry looked unconvinced.  “And I would think that after a day at school you’d need some rest.  Surely you’re still recovering.”

Henry sighed, heavily.  “I am better now, Mr Jones.  And Mama says it’s supper time.”

Killian didn’t bother asking Henry what kind of mood his mother was in; he could well-picture the wary glances and pursed lips that awaited him in the cabin.  Were it not for his own hunger then he could have happily stayed away, but he was hardly going to starve himself in the name of…well, he wasn’t sure exactly what to name it.

It seemed a little ridiculous to call it love, but, yet, there was something that drew him to Emma and somehow managed to render him insensible in the process, meaning that each time he tried to assure her of his feelings he merely did the opposite and pushed her further away.

It was a maddening situation to be in.

Henry dominated the conversation at supper, much as he had at breakfast, only this time his talk was of what had happened not what might happen.  The topics were much the same and Killian suspected that this might be the second time Emma had heard some of the anecdotes, Henry having been certain to have filled her in as soon as he had returned that afternoon.

If that was, indeed, the case then she did not show it outwardly, but continued to listen attentively to all Henry had to say.  Killian was a little more impatient, wanting his own opportunity to speak with her, but knowing it might not come until the morning.  If Emma was prepared to allow him another opportunity at all, that was.

He managed to keep his frustration battened down.  At least, he hoped that was the case.  Save for a few brief glances across the table, Emma all but ignored him and so he did not have the gauge of her expression in which to judge his own countenance.

It was only when Henry had left the table, sent out again to clean dishes and then clean himself that Emma spoke to Killian at all.  “You should…come back,” she said, her voice low and urgent.  “Once Henry is asleep.”

Killian nodded, and left the cabin, hoping that the boy would, indeed, be worn out by the day’s activities.

Even so, he waited perhaps a little longer than was truly necessary before he returned to the cabin, uncertain of what would be waiting for him.  While he could not stop himself entertaining the notion of Emma, finally, inviting him into her bed he was hardly optimistic that the outcome would be so pleasing. 

He eschewed knocking on the cabin door, unwilling to risk waking Henry, although he realised that there was a very real risk of surprising Emma.  She looked anything but startled, however, sitting at the table with a cup in front of her and one carefully placed on the opposite side, clearly for Killian.

Killian recognised that the terms of their meeting had been made clear by Emma and it would have been churlish for him to protest.  He took his seat and waited.

“Perhaps you are right,” Emma said, after what seemed like a long while staring at the cup in front of her.  Killian had taken one sip from his own cup, but the concoction was bitter and less than appetising.

“I am?”

“When you said that we needed to…find out what the other was thinking.  Because I find that I am…constantly surprised by you, Killian.  It is not something that I find with many people.  It is unsettling.”

“And you are upset by this?”

“I…truly, it is hard to tell.  Mostly I am curious as to why you seem to be the exception.”

Killian sat further back, his hand letting go of the cup he’d been clutching.  “Ah.  You are concerned as to why I stopped…before, in the barn.”

“I find it difficult to reconcile that instance with the previous night.”

“Well, I might be an exception but I am hardly a saint, Emma.  When you offered me…comfort, it was…it was very greatly appreciated.  But you have said it yourself; I am your husband, and you are my wife.  And I would like for us to behave as such, and not as though we are illicit lovers snatching what brief moments we are able to.  I have had that, Emma, and I sure you have too, although I would never presume to judge you for that.  But it is not what I wish for now.”

“You wish that we should live as man and wife?”  Emma glanced over her shoulder at the door to the bedroom.

“When you are comfortable with that notion.  I have said before that I will not press you.  This is, I hope, a true partnership.”

Emma nodded.  “I appreciate your…efforts to be accommodating.”

“It is not mere accommodation, Emma.”

“Then what is it?”

The question stumped Killian.  He had dismissed the notion of love in his own mind earlier, fearful that to use such a term was to invite disaster or, at the very least, heartbreak when the object of his affection did not reciprocate.  This was, after all, only ever meant to be a marriage of convenience on Emma’s part.  Even when her intended bridegroom was Liam there was no chance that she had harboured any love for him before her arrival in Storybrooke.

Liam had hoped that she would grow to love him, and, perhaps, that was the one thing he had passed on to Killian.

“I am…decidedly fond of you, Emma.  I wish to have your regard and to feel that I have earned it, not just through pity for my past misfortunes, but from my own deeds.”

“It was not pity that provoked my actions the other night.  I am…capable of having my own desires, Killian.  I said as much at the time. And several times since.”

Her words, though spoken a little harshly, soothed some of Killian’s fears about the encounter in her hut, but still did not answer the question of the future. 

“Then I hope that, in time, your desires will enable me a more…settled place in your heart.  In the meantime, I would still like to discuss with you the proposal I had.”

Emma frowned.  “This is…another matter?”

“Aye.  Although I feel that our partnership is, after all, inextricably linked with our success in the farm.  As you know, the work is…there is a lot for two people, one of whom has numerous other duties.”

He had spoken gently, but Emma looked affronted all the same.  “I am doing all I can and all that I promised you.  I do not mind the work in the field, and I will work more, if required.  But Henry…”

“This is not about Henry,” Killian assured her.  “When I visited the saloon the other night I ran into an old acquaintance.  In truth, he was the one who purchased our liquor.  He wished to toast to Liam.”

“He had known you both?”

“He…William Smee…yes, he had.  Once before he’d passed through Storybrooke and he had resided here with Liam and myself, helping out with odd jobs and the like.”

“And this Mr Smee is desirous of re-gaining his former employment?”

“I believe that he is.  The opportunities he hoped for in California have not come to pass and so he has come back here.  He was very fond of Liam.  And he does not ask for much in return for his labour…merely room and board.”

Emma’s lips pressed together in a firm line as she mulled over his proposal.  No doubt she could see the same problems as Killian could with the idea he’d suggested.

“I don’t see how we would accommodate another person here,” Emma said, in the end. 

“I realise that it would stretch what meagre resources we have, but it’s the only way forward I can see.  We cannot ever hope to thrive if we are unable to work the farm properly.”

“That does make sense,” Emma conceded, a little reluctantly.  “Although I cannot see that we have the room for another full-grown person.”

“Ah.  Well.  I would, of course, relinquish the hut to Mr Smee and I thought that perhaps you would share with Henry, and I could…sleep there.”  He inclined his head towards the bed in the corner which currently housed the sleeping boy.

“I would share?”  Emma seemed astonished at the idea.

“It would be the most sensible solution, in the short term.”  Killian was unwilling to mention what he hoped for in the long term, lest it unsettle Emma further.

“I will have to think about this…proposal, Killian.  I will agree that there is merit to the idea, that the gains may make the short-term sacrifice worthwhile.  And I do thank you for…acknowledging that I am part of the enterprise and allowing me a say.  But, right now, I am tired.  I will consider this matter, and give you an answer in the morning.”

It was not exactly agreement to his plan, but Emma’s words were not entirely without hope.  At least Killian interpreted them as such.  Perhaps he was just inclined to see such positivity where very little existed but, if that were true, it was not such a bad thing to find himself in such a position.

It had been a long time since he had found himself feeling anything but hopeless about the difficulties he was facing.

“That will be acceptable, I’ll see you in the morning Emma.”  Killian stood up and took his leave.

“Goodnight, Killian,” Emma said to his retreating form, and perhaps he imagined it, but he thought she sounded a little wistful.

His sleep was dreamless, but he woke feeling more rested than he had done for a while, and, for once, it was not the sound of Henry’s impatient chidings that woke him.

Still, he did not expect that Emma would have been in the yard so early, feeding the chickens and, clearly, waiting for him to emerge from the hut.  The light was only just peeking over the horizon and the blue-grey shadows engulfed Emma as she strode towards him.

“I have your answer,” she said, without preamble.

“And that is?”

“That while I see the merits in employing Mr Smee I do not wish to share a bed with Henry.  In truth I was…I did not have a bed to myself until I was grown and I know from experience that a restless ten year old does not make a suitable bedmate.”

“Well, then.  We will need to find another solution.”  Killian’s mind raced, wondering whether it would be possible to fit two souls into the hut that was barely suitable accommodation for one.  Emma watched him closely, something akin to a smile playing on her lips.

“I have one.  And it’s this.  I have stated that you are my husband, and I cannot see a reason now to deny the truth of the situation.  I will share a bed with you, and that will solve the matter.”

She left him no time to agree, or disagree if such a notion were even possible, but turned on her heel nearly swinging the pail she carried against his knees as she did so.  “Breakfast will be shortly,” she said over her shoulder.  “Henry is anxious to get to school again.”

Killian stood, dumbly, where she had left him and listened to the sounds of the chickens as they gently squabbled over their breakfast.  The sun burst forth, over the top of the cabin and Henry, with similar enthusiasm, emerged from the cabin, still buttoning his shirt.

Everything was as it had been, and yet everything had changed.

**Thanks for reading!**


	20. Chapter 20

After spending much of the night mulling over the various decisions she could make, Emma had still surprised herself with the words she’d spoken to Killian.

_No.  That was wrong._

Emma abhorred lying and was determined that she shouldn’t lie to herself about the matter.  If she was to truly examine her thoughts then it was obvious as to why she had agreed to share a bed with Killian; she simply wanted to.

And she certainly hadn’t been lying, to Killian or herself, when she’d told him that sometimes she got to do what she wanted.  Although her life to date had been lacking in such instances, the needs and desires of others more often than not trumping Emma’s own.

But this time it would be different.  This time she would make the choice to take what she desired simply because she could.  All the years of denying herself, of remaining constrained by the bonds the world wished to wrap her in simply because she was born poor and female, and really, what had that got her?  Nothing but more uncertainty, more heartache, and the knowledge that there were very few places where she could ever truly be free.

It was true that Killian could offer her no security, but he had, at least, offered her more freedom than she had enjoyed previously.  And that, surely, counted for something.

Emma walked back to the cabin and reflected that it sounded good in theory, but the practice might prove quite different because nothing was guaranteed.  And that was the heart of the matter, really.  They could strive and strive and still find that they were left with nothing in the end.  Was it asking so much that she and Killian could find some comfort in each other in the meantime?

Henry looked up as she stepped inside the cabin, his expression a picture of puzzlement.  “Is it all right if I go and milk the cows now, Mama?”

“Yes.  Of course, Henry.”

Henry started to walk towards the door, and then paused.  “Is it because of yesterday, Mama?”

“What is?”

Henry sighed, heavily.  “The reason you had to go and ask Mr Jones if I could go out there.  Was that because of yesterday?  I didn’t mean to startle him, Mama…or wake him up.  It’s just I’m better now, and I didn’t want to forget how to do it.”

Emma hadn’t realised that her request for Henry to remain in the cabin while she spoke to Mr Jones had caused her son to worry about his previous behaviour, something which she’d had no knowledge of until now.

“I’m sure it was fine, Henry.  But if you don’t hurry then Mr Jones might have cause to reprimand you.”

Henry left, but only after fixing Emma with a long, suspicious look that suggested he wasn’t blind to the fact that she had offered no real reason for the necessity of conversing with Killian in the first place.  Emma wondered if all children were so naturally suspicious of their parents, or whether this was particular to Henry and due to suddenly finding himself with a mother who had been absent for much of his childhood.

Or perhaps, she realised, it was simply that he was, after all, her son and it was a defect in his character that he had simply inherited. 

The thought gave her very little comfort.  So much of what she had done these past few years, and almost everything she had denied herself, had been to ensure that Henry was secure and immune to the vagaries in fortune that had plagued her own life and rendered her wary of other people’s motives.

And now it turned out that, in some respects, it may have all been for naught.  It was a line of thinking that merely fuelled Emma’s earlier notion that she should find some small comforts where she could and while she was able, although even she could see that the connection between Henry’s well-being and sharing a bed with Killian was somewhat spurious.

She opened up the door to the stove and added another log, intent on burying herself in the work that required her attention.  There was no time to dwell on matters of the heart.

Although Emma would hesitate to term her decision one based on a heart’s desire.  Other desires, certainly, had been stirred by her previous encounters with Killian, and she’d be lying to herself if she believed otherwise.  This wasn’t about anything other than comfort, after all.

It was difficult to ascertain whether or not Killian had any further thoughts on the matter when he arrived for breakfast, Henry leading the way noisily.  In contrast Killian was mostly silent and, if Emma caught him watching her when he believed her unawares, she had no hope of determining whether or not he was looking at her more fondly than he had before.

It wasn’t as though she expected undying declarations of love as recompense for her offer, but she found it difficult to work out where she stood with the man at the best of times.  It appeared she hadn’t yet managed to bridge the chasm between them completely.

Henry’s presence, of course, made matters more complicated.  Neither of them could exactly unburden themselves in the presence of a ten year old boy who, thankfully, was mostly concerned with whether or not the cow had forgiven him for some incident which had occurred the previous morning.

Still, when Henry was dispatched for another day at school, hurriedly escaping the confines of the cabin in a great noisy bustle, Killian barely moved or acknowledged Emma’s presence.  She thought at first that he was merely staring into the empty air, but, when she followed his gaze, she realised that it was the door to the bedroom which held his attention so thoroughly.

_Oh._

But before Emma could come to the decision about whether or not she should address the issue, or simply leave Killian to his own thoughts, he seemed to realise that his attention had wandered and he gathered himself suddenly.

"I will need to speak to Mr Smee," he announced, before stopping suddenly, as though astonished at the sound of his own voice.

“Yes, I suppose you will,” Emma said, assuming that this was the appropriate response and wondering whether it would prompt more from Killian.

“Do you wish to accompany me into town?” he asked and Emma only had the slightest hesitation before she nodded in agreement.

“I should probably ensure we have enough supplies if we are to have a guest…or, worker,” Emma mused, wondering once again whether or not they would be able to feed another person comfortably.

It was too late though, to retract her agreement to Mr Smee joining them on the farm and to do so now would no doubt make it appear that her objection was really to Killian moving into the cabin with her.

And, given her earlier resolution to allow herself what comforts she could as hardship was never in short supply, it would be ridiculous to now reverse that decision.

Plus she plain didn’t want to.

“I’ll go and get the horses ready,” Killian said, nodding at her as he left and Emma stepped into the bedroom in order to get ready for their trip.

Emma realised she could, quite conceivably, put her desire to look presentable down to the fact she’d be visiting the town.  Certainly the notion of being accosted, again, by one of the belles, filled Emma with no end of dread.

But she still couldn’t definitely say that was the only reason she was concerned with her appearance this morning.  Despite wishing that she was immune to such vanity there was a large part of Emma’s mind that was focused on, well, pleasing Killian would be the most accurate term.  She wanted to reach that night with Killian still as intent on what would greet him on the other side of the bedroom door as he had seemed to be this morning.

It was a long time to wait, and Emma was not normally a patient woman.  She supposed that this must be what it was like for other married couples, ones who had performed the normal courtship rituals and counted down the days until they could legally be joined and discover what joys there were to be found in their marriage bed.

Emma wondered how they were able to maintain their single state for so long but then, no doubt, there were many girls who, like herself, were seduced into believing that the man who had promised them forever meant what he said. 

And, certainly, when she had agreed to marry Liam Jones she had felt nothing but a strong sense of foreboding, although whether that was due to the fact she had yet to meet the bridegroom or her own good sense, she couldn’t tell.

But this feeling of anticipation that now sat within her, twisting and turning in her gut was like nothing she’d ever felt before.  It wasn’t the dread fear that accompanied so many of the unknowns in her life, but it was there all the same.

Lost in her own thoughts, Emma had done little more than remove her apron when she heard Killian call her name from the door of the cabin.  She hurriedly smoothed her hair, before snatching up her coat and bonnet and leaving the bedroom. 

“You are ready?” Killian enquired, as she appeared before him, feeling a little rushed.

“Yes, I am,” Emma replied, jamming the bonnet on her head and picking up a basket that was beside the table, before stepping past Killian, who held the door open for her.

Conversation was, at least, not required once they had set off, the sounds of the horses’ hooves making enough noise that the silence between Killian and herself wasn’t obvious.  Emma hoped that was true, anyway.  She still remembered his frustration when he believed that she was avoiding him after his confession and Emma had no desire to drive another wedge between them.

Even so, she found she could not think of a single topic that would not, somehow, run the risk of leading them into a conversation that might cover dangerous ground.  So perhaps it was better to just stay silent and hope that everything remained pleasant between them.

She wondered if that should be as difficult as it sometimes felt.  Other couples, the ones she’d been imagining that morning happily waiting out the time until they were married, were they in a perpetual state of wondering whether the next comment they made would be the one that would tip the balance and ruin things forever?  Or, and this was most likely, was it simply that Emma had never been able to maintain fond feelings between herself and another person because she lacked the necessary ability to love?

This puzzled Emma even more, because it was hardly anything that could be termed love that had driven her to invite Killian into her bed.  Her feelings for him were entirely more carnal and, to her mind at least, therefore far more straightforward.  And his own feelings were the same; of this she was certain.  He desired her and that was as far as the matter went.

Although, if that were the case, then why had he stopped their liaison in the barn?  Was it merely that he was a more patient person than she and wanted to ensure they would not run the risk of being discovered by Henry, or was it something else?

It was a question that she could not answer herself, and she was no more going to ask the man beside her outright than she was going to sprout wings and fly and so she was left, once again, wondering whether on earth she and Killian Jones were quite possibly the worst match of any married couple in the history of the entire world.

Upon arriving in Storybrooke, Emma remained where she was while Killian secured the horses to a railing.  She watched as he checked and re-checked the knot he'd tied, testing how securely it was fastened.

Emma could certainly understand, given the history that she now knew, just why this was a particular concern of Killian's, but she was, all the same, glad when he finally seemed satisfied with his handiwork and stepped forward to offer her his assistance in climbing down.

Of course she was more than capable of exiting the cart without help, but Emma found that she enjoyed the, rather careful, way that Killian took her hand in his good one.  It was far too brief a touch, for Emma’s liking, and he dropped her hand rather hastily once she was safely situated on the ground.

He began walking and Emma considered whether or not she should take his arm.  Somehow she had ended up on his left and it seemed rude to make a show of changing sides, but she was uncertain as to whether he would welcome her touch so close to the place where his hand was missing.

In the end she decided that, as they were to live as man and wife, they should present as man and wife and she threaded her arm around Killian’s awkwardly, making him jump in the process.  But, after a curious glance in her direction which she all but ignored and a twist of his arm to point the hook away from her skirt, he appeared to accept it.

As they rounded a building and walked towards the saloon Emma was glad of Kilian’s presence.  She had had enough of being accosted by either the madam of the saloon or one of her employees every time she set foot in town.  It would be a welcome change if, for once, she could be allowed to attend to her errands unmolested.

But all too shortly she realised that the destination to which Killian was leading them was, in fact, the saloon itself and it was not somewhere Emma ever wished to set foot.  Whether he sensed her reluctance or simply did not think it a suitable place to venture with his wife, Killian stopped short before they reached the entrance.

He seemed reluctant to drop her arm, though, and they stood in place for a long moment without either of them speaking.

In the end, it was Emma who broke the silence.  “I shall, perhaps, make a visit to the store and, uh, see what extra provisions I can acquire.”

She hoped her words wouldn’t be mistaken as a rebuke; the subject of how they were to pay for these items no doubt a sore one for Killian, and Emma had no wish to spend time discussing in what way they were to get blood from this particular stone.  She would, she supposed, hope that the Lucas’s were disposed to feel somewhat kindly towards her and the bill could be added to the amount they already owed. 

Killian pushed his tongue against his bottom lip and looked thoughtful.  “Aye, well we’ve another mouth to feed now,” he said.

“To whom you need to speak if that arrangement is to be finalised,” Emma reminded him, gently.  But Killian made no move towards the saloon, and she began to see that he was just as uncomfortable with the notion of stepping foot inside as Emma herself was.

“I’m sure it will all be fine,” Emma assured him, as she carefully removed her arm from his and then, before completely withdrawing her hand, gave his arm a small squeeze.

“Yes.  You are most likely correct,” Killian agreed, his voice flat.  He gave a small nod, and then turned back in the direction of the saloon’s door and disappeared inside, leaving Emma alone.

Her first instinct was to glance over at Mr Gold’s shop, although the darkened windows gave away little about the whereabouts of its proprietor.  Still, she was reluctant to stray too close to the door as she passed it, almost as though she feared Mr Gold might suddenly appear through it and accost her.

But she made it inside the Lucas’s store without incident and allowed herself a brief moment of relief before she faced the next challenge.  She wondered if everyone’s lives were the same, time measured in obstacles to overcome and circumstances that had to be endured.  Emma liked to think that, perhaps, others were more fortunate than herself; certainly she hoped that Henry’s life would be marked by happier moments.  But the truth was she just didn’t know. 

Emma could see some figures shrouded in shadows towards the back of the store, where the bulkier items were stored, the murmuring of their voices just reaching Emma.  She waited patiently by the counter at the front, her mind going over all possible reactions she could conjure to the, very  real, possibility of being refused further credit.  She had rehearsed a multitude of situations, everything from rampant indignation, to uncontrollable weeping over her recently sick son, by the time Mrs Lucas, a stern-faced woman whose presence seemed much larger than her actual size, walked through from a door at the back.

 

Mrs Lucas nodded in greeting, and said “Good Morning, Mrs Jones,” and Emma was about to return the greeting, and perhaps launch into the list of items she needed when the door opened, and Mrs Lucas’s attention was called away as Mr Gold stepped inside.  Emma watched as the woman’s demeanour changed abruptly.

Emma stepped to the side, hoping that whatever business he had in the store he would conduct it quickly, and then leave.  She had no wish to have another prolonged, and no doubt painful, conversation with the man.

But if Mr Gold felt unwelcome, he made no show of it, tipping his hat to both Emma and Mrs Lucas in turn.

Emma made the briefest of nods, and kept silent, one eye on Mrs Lucas to gauge the other’s reaction.  She would remain polite, but only to the standard of matching the others in the room.  Whoever had been standing at the back had fallen silent now, but Mr Gold paid them no attention, instead making his way directly to where Mrs Lucas was standing.

The smooth mask of politeness dropped from his face almost immediately.  “Now, I’m sure that, like myself, you have better things to attend to this morning, Mrs Lucas.  So, let’s make this transaction as quick and painless as possible and then we can all get on with the rest of our day.”

For a moment Emma thought that Mrs Lucas might respond sharply.  Certainly, the look that crossed her face was dark and showed that she had no great love for the man standing opposite her.  But she gave a resigned sigh, and reached down below the counter before holding out an envelope towards Mr Gold.

“Always a pleasure to have such prompt-paying tenants,” Mr Gold said, to complete stone-faced blankness from Mrs Lucas.  Emma could hardly blame the woman; surely there were better ways to conduct such business, away from the prying eyes of other townspeople.  Emma was glad that, for once, she was able to avoid being the one subjected to such treatment.

But she might have known it was too good to last.  With nothing more forthcoming from Mrs Lucas, Mr Gold turned his attention elsewhere.  “Mrs Jones, so lovely to see you again.  You hadn’t been in town for so long now, I thought that surely you’d packed up and left Storybrooke altogether.”

There was silence for a moment and Emma realised that, as no one else in the store was likely to step in to defend her, she had no choice but to offer the man a reply.  “No, I live here.”

Mr Gold stepped away from the counter, towards Emma and she held herself very still so that she did not give in to the temptation to step back.  “It’s rare to see a woman of such loyalty these days,” he said, the words sounding like a compliment but the manner in which he uttered them oily and insincere.

This time Emma remained silent, knowing full well that there was no response she could give that she would not be judged for, and hoping that her silence would not lead her to the same fate.

It certainly did not do anything to deter Mr Gold, who did not seem to be at all troubled by the one-sided nature of the conversation.  “Still, I have reaped the benefit of that, haven’t I dearie?  Those candlesticks you sold me proved quite the drawcard.  So much so that I’m inclined to be a little generous this morning, and finance your purchases.  On the strict understanding, of course, that should any further bequests come into your possession, you’ll think of me first.”

He waved the envelope idly in front of him, as though he thought the money would be more of an enticement.  Emma doubted that he was as desperate to help her as he was to humiliate her publicly.

“No.  I will not be needing your assistance.”  Emma had thought that she might end the sentence with a thank-you, but it was stuck in her throat and remained unuttered. 

If Mr Gold took offence at her refusal, then he did not show it, the smile still stuck on his face in exactly the way it had been before.  He also made no attempt to persuade Emma to reconsider his offer, which merely confirmed her belief that whatever he had wanted to achieve with his words, it was not the mere provision of charity.

“Well, good day to you then, Mrs Jones.  I look forward to our next meeting.”  Emma’s heart sank further at the thought of the favour she still owed the man.  She briefly wondered whether she should have accepted the money in the hope it would make him feel more favourable towards her and perhaps prolong the time until she was called to account.

It was all a show, though.  Designed to humiliate and control her and continue on some game that Mr Gold imagined they were playing, one which Emma would never win.

“Yes.  Goodbye, Mr Gold.”  There was a moment of silence during which he remained still as a statue, perhaps waiting for Emma to add more, or thinking of some retort of his own.  But in the end he merely tipped his hat to the room.

“I will take my leave of you ladies, then.”  With that he turned and walked back out the door of the store.

Mrs Lucas muttered something under her breath that Emma couldn’t catch, but which sounded unpleasant.   She hoped it was directed at Mr Gold and not herself; she felt more exposed than ever now that he had left.

To make matters worse, the people in the back of the store now moved forward and were revealed to be Ruby Lucas and Ruth Spencer, the sheriff’s mother, next to whom Emma had been seated during the church service.  It had been bad enough when her only transgression was a son who couldn’t concentrate on a sermon, now Mr Gold had managed to imply all manner of things about her character in the space of mere minutes.

Emma had begun the day by resolving to take her comfort where she could, but she was beginning to wonder just how much comfort it would take to balance out a moment such as this.

Mrs Spencer, meanwhile, acknowledged no awkwardness and greeted Emma in a manner befitting a respectable matron.  Emma, while suspicious that the woman’s outward pleasantries were no guarantee of her genuine good-will, had no choice but to return her greeting before her attention was called back to a, now slightly impatient, Mrs Lucas.  “Do you have a list, Mrs Jones?”

Emma shook her head and smiled.  “No, I am only in need of a few items.”  That was all she could, hopefully, afford anyway and, as the person in charge of the accounts, Mrs Lucas would have been well aware of that anyway. 

It was, quite frankly, exhausting pretending that there wasn’t every chance she might simply be sent away without the things she’d come for, but it was this thin veneer of pretence that made society run smoothly.  Or, at least, that was what Emma had surmised during her lifetime.  It seemed an odd arrangement to her mind, but she’d learnt that the only way to get what she wanted was to play by the rules everyone seemed so anxious to adhere to.

Mrs Lucas’s mouth set in a thin, straight line and Emma wondered whether she’d simply say no outright and that would be the end of the matter.  Instead, after a long moment of consideration, she nodded and said “Well, tell me what you need, then.”

Emma kept her requests minimal, asking for flour, sugar, salt and some soap.  Mrs Lucas piled the items on the counter without any comment, but her expression was enough to tell Emma exactly what her thoughts on the matter were.

It was hard not to wish that she was being served by Mrs Lucas’s granddaughter, who might perhaps be a little less judgmental.  Ruby Lucas, however, was still occupied seeing to Mrs Spencer’s needs, the two women discussing a bolt of cloth animatedly and, very pointedly, not watching the interaction taking place between Emma and Mrs Lucas.

With her items grouped haphazardly on the counter, Emma took a deep breath.  “That can be added to my account, please.”

If it had been possible for Mrs Lucas to look more disapproving, then Emma was certain that she would have.  Instead she settled for sighing, loudly, and announcing “The account will have to be settled up, soon as you can.”

Emma nodded, knowing that it was better to look contrite than to make promises she would never be able to keep.  She hated every moment of it, though.  Relying on the benevolence of those who held power over you never led anywhere pleasant, as far as she was concerned.

Mrs Lucas pulled a large, dusty ledger from under the counter and turned the pages until she found the one headed Jones, and Emma tried very hard not to look at all the dense, black ink numbers written in a column down the page.

There wasn’t anything comforting to be found in the pages of that book, and Emma busied herself with placing her goods into the basket she was holding.  When that task was completed she uttered a simple “Good day, Mrs Lucas,” and left the store before anything more could be said.

Once outside Emma allowed relief to wash over her.  As unpleasant as it had been, the moment was passed now and she was, again, free from the disapproving looks and gleeful taunts that she’d had to endure in the presence of Mrs Lucas and Mr Gold. 

It was the smallest of mercies, but it was all Emma had and it wasn’t like she had someone to complain to, anyway.  She hoped that Killian would return from the saloon before anything else happened, and began to slowly make her way towards the cart.

Only her peaceful progress was halted by the sound of someone calling out her name.  Turning, Emma saw that Mrs Spencer and Ruby Lucas had followed her out of the general store and were now hailing her.

So much for the relief of being away from the scrutiny of others.  Now she had no choice but to turn and face whatever was coming.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Jones,” Mrs Spencer began, when they were face to face.  “I believe that you left these in the store.”

She gestured to the box that Ruby was carrying and the girl dutifully placed it in the cart before nodding to both Emma and Mrs Spencer, and hurriedly walking off again.

“I…” Emma began, more than a little taken aback.  Gathering her thoughts as best she could, she tried again.  “I’m sorry Mrs Spencer, but that’s simply not correct.”

It would have been easy to pretend but the risk of being caught in the lie at some later date and adding to the other reasons the good citizens like Mrs Spencer already had to look down on her, did not appeal at all to Emma.  There was no easy way to leave Storybrooke, and she had no desire to be its pariah.

"I assure you, Mrs Jones.  These items are intended for you."  Mrs Spencer smiled warmly and Emma almost agreed, but the hand placed on her arm tipped the balance and reminded Emma that she didn't exist simply to ease this woman's conscience.

She wasn't prepared to be the town's charity case, either.

“No.  I am sorry if it offends, but I cannot accept them.”

But the smile didn’t fade from Mrs Spencer’s face, although she tilted her head to one side and gave Emma a long look.  “It seems this would be a sad day, Mrs Jones, if one woman cannot simply help another.”

Emma didn’t know how to convey the utter humiliation she felt at being considered worthy of such help, and so she remained silent.  Mrs Spencer, perhaps, mistook her silence for something else.  “I am a mother as well, you know,” she continued, her voice gentle as though she was trying not to startle Emma unduly.  “I know what it is like to worry how you will feed your son.”

“I do not blame Mr Jones for our situation,” Emma volunteered, a little cautiously.

“Then Mr Gold was correct, and you are loyal.  Although I suspect his motive was more to embarrass than praise.” 

Emma was glad that at least they could find some common ground on the subject of Mr Gold and his motives, although she was still suspicious of the reason for the woman’s act of kindness.  She stayed still, unwilling to even touch the gift lest that be considered acceptance, and silent.

Mrs Spencer looked as though she was considering her words.  “I think…perhaps you think me less than genuine.  I assure that we have more in common than you would imagine.  Not just that we are mothers, but that…well.  We all do what we can to keep our families together, I think we can agree we have that in common.”

Emma wondered if there was some accusation about her own morals in the woman’s words, but her expression remained kindly and, she thought, a little hopeful.  As far as Emma could tell Mrs Spencer was genuine in wanting to help her, and she softened, somewhat.

Maybe there wouldn’t be any harm in accepting, after all.

“You are very kind,” Emma said, haltingly. 

“Perhaps,” Mrs Spencer conceded.  “But I find that you remind me of our guest, Miss Blanchard…”

“I fear we are cut from very different cloths.”

“I think perhaps not.  You share an optimism that I admire, and, if I can do something small to justify your beliefs then that will be good enough for me.  I don’t expect thanks or, at least, I’m not doing this to make you beholden to me.  I’m doing it because I can, and I want to.”

Mrs Spencer looked at her imploringly, almost as though Emma accepting her gift would please her the most in the world.

“I still believe you to be kind, Mrs Spencer.  And I will thank you.  This is decidedly unexpected but most certainly welcome all the same.”  Emma was concerned that her words did not sound grateful enough; it was rare that she had the opportunity to give thanks, rarer still that she truly meant it and wasn’t merely observing some rule of politeness.  She felt awkward and under far too much scrutiny and her natural instinct was to simply remain quiet and wait until the moment had passed.

But if Mrs Spencer sensed her internal struggle, there was no sign of it.  She smiled again, and said “You are very welcome, Mrs Jones.  I wish you, and your family, all the best,” before she turned and walked back towards the centre of the town.

Emma put her basket in the cart, setting it down beside the box Ruby had placed there.  She was tempted to rifle through and see, exactly, what it was she had been gifted but she heard footsteps and turned in time to see Killian approaching, with another man beside him.

Emma straightened and watched them walk towards her.  Mr Smee’s build suggested he was a man with a healthy appetite, and Emma was thankful again for the extra supplies she’d been gifted.  He was wearing a bright red knitted cap, which stood out against the bleached wood of the buildings behind him, and carrying a duffel bag which, she presumed, contained all possessions.

Stopping in front of her, Killian attempted introductions.  “Mr William Smee this is Mrs Sw…uh, Jones.”

If Mr Smee noticed that Killian stumbled over her title he was polite enough not to say anything.  Snatching his cap off his head, he held it in front of him and looked serious.  “Pleased to meet you Mrs, and, uh, sorry for your sad loss.  But, uh, congratulations on the marriage, and all that.”  He turned to Killian, as though checking that what he’d said was acceptable.

Killian nodded and Mr Smee beamed, while Emma extended her hand.  Mr Smee shook it enthusiastically and broke out into a broad smile.

“Right.  Let’s be off then,” Killian said, and he helped Emma up into the cart while Mr Smee climbed into the back.  They set off back towards the farm, the journey this time punctuated by commentary from Mr Smee about what had or hadn’t changed along their route.

Emma was glad that she was no longer under pressure to make some kind of conversation but she was beginning to wonder just what it would be like to have another person observing Killian and herself.  Would he notice their continued awkwardness, or would he simply take it for granted that they were like any other couple and not inquire further? 

But mostly Mr Smee seemed concerned with whether the occupants of the other dwellings they passed had changed, and, when they arrived back at the farm, he immediately unloaded his bag and disappeared in the direction of the hut.

“Smee’s a simple fellow,” Killian said, helping Emma down again.  “But I think he’ll be fine.”

“Simple I can cope with.  I’ve had quite the opposite this morning.”

Killian looked at her quizzically.  “What happened?”

“Mr Gold paid a visit to the Lucas’s store while I was in there.  He was not the most pleasant of company.”

“I’m sorry.  That you had to endure that, because of me.”

Emma shrugged.  There was little either of them could do about Mr Gold at the moment.  She walked to the back of the cart, and Killian followed her, noticing for the first time just how much Emma had returned from the store with.

“You were successful then?” he asked, peering inside the box.

“I had a benefactor.”

“Gold?” 

“No.  Mrs Spencer.  But I believe that, in part, she was provoked to help me by Mr Gold’s words.”

For a moment Emma thought that Killian might ask, exactly, what those words were.  But instead he said, “There’s no love lost between Mr Spencer and Mr Gold.  Each of them seem intent on owning as much of Storybrooke as they can, and are continually surprised that the other seems to stand in their way.  I suspect that Mrs Spencer enjoyed the opportunity to show up her husband’s rival.”

“Perhaps,” Emma conceded, although she wasn’t entirely convinced.  “Although apparently she mainly offered me the goods because she believes me to be an optimist.”

“And are you, Emma?”

She considered that question for a moment.  “I do believe that, at this moment, I am.”

Her decision that morning to embrace the moments when life was kinder to her, made that belief a little easier.  And Emma found that she was, if not exactly optimistic, lacking the sense of dread that often accompanied her through life.

Killian smiled, but didn’t have a chance to reply as Mr Smee’s voice called out “Mr Jones?  Mr Jones, did you need me to do something?” and he was called away.

Left to her own devices, Emma unpacked their bounty from the cart and pondered what she could make for dinner.  It was tempting to allow herself the freedom to make a meal much larger than she would normally be able to, but the food she had now would have to last for a while and she needed to temper her enthusiasm.

Even so, the beef that Mrs Spencer had included would not last forever and a meal with something other than rabbit or vegetables was too good a chance to pass up.

Killian and Mr Smee were, Emma supposed, out in the fields and she set to making bread, kneading the dough out on the table and ending up covered in flour in the process.  It was soothing, in a way, the rhythmic, repetitive motions almost hypnotic after a while.  She let her mind go blank as her hands moved and it was a surprise when the door suddenly opened and Killian appeared.

It was so unexpected that she jumped, a little.  Enough to be noticed by Killian, who immediately held up a hand in supplication.

Emma felt foolish, and looked away as she wiped her floured hands on the apron she was wearing.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I’m not startled,” Emma said, despite it being a plain lie.  Perhaps she didn’t mind them so much when their purpose was to salvage her own pride.

To his credit, Killian did not contradict her and, if anything, he looked a little nervous.  Emma wondered what business it was he had with her.  It was unusual, she realised, for him to come to the cabin in the middle of the day.

But now it was also his home, properly, and no doubt that would change.

“I…well, it doesn’t matter.  I will attend to it later on.  I just wanted to say that although Smee is here…the field wasn’t the same.”

Emma didn’t immediately understand what he meant.  Surely a field, nothing but earth after all, was always the same.  And then she realised. 

“Oh.  Well you can look forward to the pleasure of my company at dinner,” she said, hoping that her tone was sufficiently light.  She couldn’t always tell, joking not being a skill that had helped her through her childhood.  “And afterwards,” she added without thinking.

Killian looked even more uncomfortable, and turned a little red in the cheeks and Emma decided that joking was definitely not her forte.  “Well, anyway.  At least supper contains meat tonight so that is something to look forward to,” she said hurriedly, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“Aye.  I should though…be getting back now.  In case he needs me.  Smee.  He misses Liam, I think.  He always liked Liam.”

With that odd, and rather melancholy, statement, Killian disappeared again and Emma went back to the bread.  It was only later, after the bread was in the detested stove and she was able to venture outside to feed the chickens that she noticed the small leather satchel placed outside the door to the cabin.

For a moment Emma was puzzled, and wondered if perhaps Mr Smee had left it there.  But it seemed familiar and she suddenly realised that it normally resided in the hut with Killian.

Although he no longer lived there, and so he had, no doubt, cleared out his possessions to make room for Mr Smee.  The sight of this bag stirred up a host of unpleasant memories for Emma.  Her childhood had been spent in transit between the temporary homes and the orphanages and back again.  When she was able, she had carried with her the few meagre possessions she had to her name.  Sometimes, she wasn’t allowed even that. 

Impulsively, perhaps, she swept the satchel up and carried it inside and into the bedroom where she placed it carefully on the bed.  It wasn’t much, but she could do that for Killian at least.

Henry’s return from school meant that there were introductions to be made again.  He stared at Mr Smee suspiciously, perhaps expecting that the man would usurp his position in the household, but was sufficiently mollified when he was allowed to go with the men to mend part of the barn wall. 

“You won’t have to hold the nail this time,” Killian told Henry cheerfully, although the boy looked a little perplexed at that statement.

Emma understood what was behind it, though.  She hadn’t, perhaps, appreciated just how much relief Killian would feel at being able to hand over the tasks made difficult by only having one hand.

Henry, however, remained far more concerned with his own capabilities.  “But I still get to use the hammer, don’t I?  Mr Smee knows that I can do that?”

“I’ll make sure he knows.”

With everyone else occupied Emma was free to continue with supper.  By the time they returned it was ready and Henry was looking much happier.  “Mr Smee showed me how to saw the wood, Mama!”

“That’s…lovely.”  She wasn’t certain it was lovely.  There was already one person with a missing hand on the farm, she didn’t really need Henry to join the company.  But she was glad all the same that Henry was happy to work alongside Mr Smee.

Of course that did not solve her most pressing problem, which was how they would distribute the few dishes they had.  Emma resorted to serving herself using a pan she normally used to bake bread as a plate, and giving Killian the serving spoon to eat with.  None of it was ideal, but they’d make do because there was no choice.  And also, as Emma was coming to appreciate, they were people who were good at making do.

The quantity, and quality, of the food on offer made up for the missing items, however, and there was little complaint from everyone seated around the table.  It was a tight fit, and they only just managed to accommodate Mr Smee who, if there had been anyone left outside the cabin yet to join their party, was in danger of being hit in the back with the door when it opened.

As it was his perch on the chair looked a little precarious and Emma worried about him toppling right over every time he laughed, which he seemed to do at regular intervals.  Mainly whenever Henry said something provocative and the boy got louder and louder as dinner wore on and he grew desperate to entertain his new companion.

As a last resort, Emma suggested that Henry read to Mr Smee from his storybook, when the meal was finished and cleared away.

“I do enjoy a good tale,” Mr Smee said, settling in to listen.  He marvelled at Henry’s reading ability, not seeming to notice the words the boy stumbled over, and Henry beamed with pride. 

“I didn’t get no schooling,” Mr Smee said.  “Grandma couldn’t spare me off the farm.  She did knit me this, though, so as I’ll always remember her.”  He took off his cap and held it out to Henry.

“School’s not that exciting,” Henry said, after a quick examination of the cap.  “I mean…sometimes it’s fine, but mostly you just have to sit there.  It’s more interesting on the farm.”

“But you get to do both, so that’s real good, isn’t it?” Mr Smee asked, looking pleased with himself that he’d come up with this notion.

Henry shrugged.  “I suppose.”

Killian was a silent observer as well, although he seemed a little more relaxed than he usually was.  Never having had a comparison, Emma hadn't realised just how much the worry over the farm had been weighing on Killian's mind. 

Eventually Mr Smee managed to extricate himself from Henry’s clutches.  “I could read you just one more?  Please?”

“Much as I would no doubt enjoy it, I should get to bed.  Got to be up early in the morning for the milking.”

Henry’s face fell.  “But…that’s my job, Mr Smee,” he said, quietly.

“Is it now?  Well then I’ll be your helper I guess, same as I am Mr Jones’s.”

That cheered Henry up somewhat, and he said an effusive good night to his new companion, although the effect was somewhat marred by the large yawn he had to stifle in order to get the words out.

During the time it took to get Henry settled in bed - teeth and face cleaned, prayers said, questions about Mr Smee asked and, as far as Emma was able, answered – Emma lost sight of exactly where Killian was. 

He hadn’t remained in the cabin as Henry had climbed, complainingly, into bed and she couldn’t fathom where else he might be.  She wondered if, perhaps, he had changed his mind in some way, decided that he would find another place to sleep.

It was only when she walked into the bedroom and saw the satchel that she’d brought in earlier that she realised how unlikely it was that Killian would have left her in sole possession of his belongings and gone elsewhere.

Perhaps he was waiting until Henry was asleep?  If that was the case then he needn’t have bothered; Henry had started snoring softly almost as soon as his head had hit the pillow.  There was nothing left to do but to ready herself for bed and wait to see if Killian arrived any time soon. 

She put on her nightdress quickly, not really wishing to be caught in a tangle of limbs and undergarments, but Killian didn’t arrive and she decided that she could take her time after that and began by unpinning her hair and re-braiding it ready for night.

Just as she had the first night in this room, Emma waited for Killian, only this time without so much trepidation.  Now the anticipation of his arrival was lighter, a fluttering in her chest rather than a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach.

But the candle burned lower and still Killian didn’t come.  Just as she was about to think she might have to go and look for him, there was a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” she said, with a voice that sounded raspy from not being used in a while.

Killian did as he was told, but then stood, just inside the door, hovering awkwardly.  “I didn’t want to startle you,” he said in the end.  “Again.”

“You wouldn’t have, I assumed you would be here.”

Killian noticed the satchel had made its way into the bedroom.  “Yes.  I see,” he said.

It was far too awkward an encounter for Emma’s liking, and far too far away from the giddy anticipation she’d felt that morning when she’d informed Killian of her decision. 

In order to break the deadlock they’d inadvertently found themselves in, Emma was going to have to try another tack.  They were better, she felt, when they were doing something.  Or, at least, she knew she was.

“Shall I unpack for you?” she asked, hopefully.

“No.  It’s fine.  I’ll see to that later.”  Killian picked up the bag and looked around, before deciding to place it in the corner of the room.

Casting around for another idea she said, “Then let me help with your buttons.”  She reached towards Killian intent on assisting him with his shirt.

But Killian shrank back, and Emma was left grasping at the air in a most embarrassing fashion.  She thought she had been clear about, exactly, what she wanted.  That she wanted him.  And now…now he was acting as though they hadn’t already been intimately acquainted, as though he hadn’t allowed her to undress him, and more, in the hut, two night’s previously.

It left her hurt, confused, and more than a little angry.  But she took a deep breath, and tried to push those feelings away.

“This is still not how you wish this to be?” she asked, not quite managing to keep all of the frustration out of her voice.

“It is simply that…I wish that I could give you what I promised,” Killian replied, looking a little ashamed.

“I don’t understand.  I thought this was the agreement; we are man and wife, after all.”

“But Emma you should have a wedding night.  A proper one.”

It wasn’t even something Emma had considered, her own focus being on the comfort she intended to take from sharing her bed with a willing partner, not on whether the occasion would be marked by…well, whatever it was that designated a wedding night as different to any other night in the course of a marriage.

Once again it seemed as though Killian and Emma had arrived at the same point by completely different paths.  There was only one way forward from here, as far as Emma could see, and it involved the one thing she hated most in the world; laying her own feelings out for examination.

“I have no desire to force you into some kind of pretence,” she said, but immediately regretted her words when she saw Killian’s reaction.

“I did not mean that this is a pretence,” she added.  “Merely that I knew what I asking for when I said you should share my bed.”

“And what exactly is that, Emma?”

She took a deep breath and tried her best to explain.  “I decided, this morning, that the best course of action is to take my comforts where I can find them.  The world will always have a way to remind me that I am not immune from trouble…today’s encounter with Mr Gold only proved my point.  But I need to, I think anyway, take the good things that are also offered to me, and find comfort in them.”

Emma waited to see what Killian’s reaction would be.  He stepped closer, and she was tempted to reach out and touch him, but refrained.  Her pride was still a little hurt from when he had shrunk back before, and she didn’t want to face the same rejection again.

“And am I to be your comforter, Emma?” Killian asked, tilting his head to one side.

“I think we should take comfort in each other…or, pleasure would perhaps be a better term.”

“That’s what you want from me?” Killian asked, his voice low and his mouth close to Emma’s own now.  “Pleasure?”

Emma had the notion of telling him that she wasn’t a trembling virgin or someone else’s wife and she didn’t need to be seduced into his bed, but then Killian placed his mouth against her neck, hot and needy against her skin and all thoughts of speaking flew straight from Emma’s mind.

It was more fitting with her new policy of taking what she was offered, anyway, to simply enjoy the feeling of Killian’s kisses travelling along her jaw, the scratch of his beard against her skin a contrast to the gentle press of his lips and tongue.

“Is this what you wanted, Emma?” he asked, just at the moment when she thought his mouth might finally find her own. 

“Yes.” 

Killian didn’t reply to that, at least not with words.  He made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat before he, finally, touched his lips to Emma’s.

This kiss was different from the one in the barn.  It wasn’t borne from misunderstandings and frustration but from, well, perhaps Emma was being a little fanciful, but she imagined that this was more about the pair of them being on the same page, both desiring something from the other.

As, she thought, a wedding night should be.

Emma felt Killian’s hand cradle the back of her head, fingers tangling in the strands of hair which had come loose from the braid.  Now that she was certain Killian wouldn’t shrink back from her again, Emma dared to reach out and place her hands on his waist, toying with the fabric of his shirt and wondering whether he would let her remove it now.

Killian seemed to take this as further encouragement and he shuffled forward a little, his left arm carefully wrapping around Emma’s waist and she found herself pressed against him fully.  It was quite a different sensation now that she wasn’t dressed in the rough clothing she’d inherited from Liam Jones.  Her nightdress was thin and through it she could feel the heat of Killian’s arm where it touched her waist, and, most thrillingly, there was now little fabric between her breasts and Killian’s chest.

Even so, Emma thought that it might be better if there was even less covering them.  Wedging her hands as best she could into the scarce space between their bodies, she made another attempt at undoing the buttons on Killian’s shirt.  But, as her fingers found their target, he broke off from kissing her.

“No, Emma,” he said, sounding breathless.  It was barely a rebuke, but Emma felt stung by it all the same.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, as though saying it any louder might make the admission more embarrassing.

“You wanted pleasure, darling.  Let’s…let me give you that.”

Emma was still more than a little confused about the situation and what, exactly, was happening.  She had assumed that Killian wanted her as much as she wanted him and, now, it seemed entirely possible that she was wrong.

But in the time that she had attempted to understand what was happening, Killian’s mouth had returned to her neck and her train of thought had been most decisively de-railed.  His hand moved from its place behind her head and began to toy with the buttons that fastened her nightdress, slowly – a little too slowly for Emma’s liking – undoing them while his mouth found hers again.

When her nightdress was unfastened, Killian slipped his hand inside, surprisingly warm against Emma’s heated skin.  Pulling back, he looked at her through long, dark lashes and his gaze did not waver from hers as his hand gently traced the skin just below her collarbone.

Emma was suddenly aware of every breath she took, the rise and fall of her chest as Killian’s hand made slow progress down her chest and inside her nightgown.  The roughness of his fingertips were in stark contrast to the gentleness of his touch, almost as though he thought she might break.  At any other time Emma would have disagreed wholeheartedly with that assessment but, right at that moment, she thought that she might indeed come apart at the seams if this tension continued on for much longer.

And then after what seemed like minutes had ticked by, Killian’s hand found its target as he cupped her breast and dragged his thumb, slowly, across the hardened nipple.  It was exquisite and excruciating all at once and Emma felt awkward at her own eagerness, uncertain what to do with her hands and mostly just desperate for more.

This time, Killian was somewhat obliging.  He pushed aside the fabric and bent his head, capturing her nipple in his mouth.  “Oh,” Emma breathed out, almost without meaning to, as Killian continued his ministrations, kissing and sucking in a most delicious combination that simply added fuel to the fire already burning between her thighs.

She leaned back in his embrace, his left arm supporting her and the hook starting to press into her side, but she barely noticed.  All of her attention was on Killian, and how it felt to have his mouth against her skin. 

And then, just at the point when she thought she wouldn’t be able to last if something, anything, didn’t happen, Killian pulled away looking dark-eyed and flushed.  “Will you…will you let me take out your hair, Emma?”

It took her a few moments to gather her thoughts enough to formulate an answer to a question she hadn’t been expecting at all.  “Yes.”

Killian took her shoulder and twisted, indicating she should turn and face away.  Emma complied and stood, as patiently as she was able, while Killian’s fingers pulled at her braid, carefully arranging her hair so that it was draped over her shoulders.  It was a somewhat laborious process one-handed and, more than once, Emma was tempted to take over so that they could get back to what they had been doing.  But she’d been chided already for being too eager and she was unwilling to hurt Killian’s pride at, what felt like, a turning-point in their relationship.

There have been too many times already that he’d hidden from her and she definitely didn’t want this night to end in disaster.

So she stood quietly, just as she had every time some matron or poorly-paid nursemaid fixed her hair when she was a child; although Killian was far more considerate than anyone entrusted with her care back then had ever been. 

When he was finished, he turned Emma around and stepped back to study his handiwork, a satisfied expression on his face.  “This is so pleasing to you?” she asked, a little bemused by the whole performance.

Killian frowned at her words.  “You’re pleasing to me, Emma.”

Emma felt as though she should have some response to give to that statement, something to offer Killian in return.  But the whole notion was so foreign to her that her mouth stayed shut.  If Killian noticed her reticence, he made no sign of it, continuing to gaze at her in what Emma could only describe as admiration.

“May I?” he asked, reaching out to toy with the open neckline of her nightgown.

Emma nodded and then, concerned that she hadn’t been sufficiently clear, added a quiet “You may.”

Stepping closer again, close enough that Emma could have leaned forward and kissed him again.  And she was tempted, very tempted, but Killian was now more intent on removing her nightgown from her and she watched, interested, as he slowly moved it off one shoulder, then the other, careful to only use his right hand, and then pushed until the garment lay on the floor.

This time, when Killian stood back to look at her, Emma felt a little unnerved by his scrutiny.  It was almost as though he was examining goods he’d purchased.  She was about to make light of it, say something like ‘one wife, in good working order’, but there was something….intense about the way he looked at her.  As though she wasn’t just perfectly serviceable, but something more…something special.  Something worthy of all the attention he seemed so determined to lavish on her.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Killian asked.

“No.”  Mostly that was the truth.  Emma hadn’t found any discomfort in simply being bare in Killian’s presence.  In fact, she rather enjoyed being admired in this way.  It was more the way he looked at her, as though he was desperate to please her, which she found a little startling. 

“Good.”  Killian held out his hand and Emma took it, letting him lead her towards the bed where she sat.

“Perhaps we should blow out the candle?” she asked.  “Before it runs out.”

“No.  I…I want to see if you’re enjoying this…comfort.”  Killian smiled, and sat down on the bed next to her.

Emma nodded, unsure of what exactly was supposed to happen now.  At what point would she be allowed to finally take him in her arms so they could join together as man and wife?

Killian looked like he was considering something, and then turned away, quickly.  She could see him undoing the straps that held the brace on his arm, and then he pulled it free from his shirt sleeve, placing it carefully on the chest near the bed.  The he turned back to Emma and, leaning over her, kissed her again.

Emma lay back on the bed, in a mind to pull Killian down with her, but somehow he escaped her grasp.  Possibly because her focus was drawn elsewhere as Killian’s mouth travelled down her neck, across her collarbone, and traced a line between her breasts.  His hand found her hip and she shifted under his touch, pushing upwards and seeking more contact between their two bodies, but Killian continued to elude her, remaining poised over her balanced on his left arm, and she abandoned her attempts when he placed his mouth on her breast and her legs grew restless.

Emma was hot all over now, despite her current state of undress.  Hot, and needy and she heard a whimpering noise that only after a moment did she realise came out of her own mouth.

“Shhh,” Killian said, soothingly, as his hand continued to explore, inching closer and closer to the place she most wanted to be touched.  She felt wanton and a little out of control but she couldn’t find it in herself to care, couldn’t find it in herself to want anything in that moment other than the pleasure Killian had promised her, the relief she knew was possible if he would just touch her like she wanted.

As his hand brushed the curls at the juncture of her thighs, Emma pressed her hips upwards, her legs parting of their own accord ready to welcome Killian.  But then his hand disappeared was quickly replaced with his mouth.  This was an entirely different sensation, one Emma wasn’t used to.  It was overwhelming and she squirmed, twisting away from Killian.

“You don’t want this?” Killian asked, looking up at her from his position between her legs.

“I…don’t know,” Emma said, trying to cover up her embarrassment.  “I’m not used…to this.”  In truth she wasn’t used to any of this.  She was hardly new to coupling, but all her experience had been of moments snatched in dark corners, clothes pushed aside.  Only snatching what pleasure you could in the scant time you had, certainly not the kind of careful, deliberate ministrations that Killian was offering.

“Well,” Killian said, sounding far more reasonable than Emma herself felt.  “Perhaps we could just continue for a bit.  I only have one hand, after all.”

“All right,” Emma agreed, although she wasn’t entirely certain that her agreement had much to do with taking pity on Killian’s lack of a hand.  The one he had rested lightly on her stomach, but it was his mouth that took all of Emma’s attention.

This time she was a little more prepared for the way it felt as he began again; kissing, and sucking, tongue exploring her, driving her closer and closer to the point of no return.

And if Emma thought that it felt wonderful, then that was nothing to the way it looked when she opened her eyes and saw Killian’s head between her own spread legs.  Tentatively, unsure of exactly what the protocol was, Emma reached down and brushed her hand against the back of Killian’s own, before stroking across his hair and burying her fingers in the thick strands.  He made no complaint and, in fact, seemed to redouble his efforts in response.

It all felt so, so good.  She’d wanted comfort, and she’d asked for pleasure and now she had both in abundance.  Her legs shifted and suddenly Killian’s mouth found a rhythm that was even more pleasing and she found herself pressing up, up in the hope of reaching that golden peak that was just in reach.  She was so close.

And then it washed over her, a great wave of pleasure that left her panting in its wake as her legs stiffened and a sound that she couldn’t name left her throat and Killian placed gentle kisses against her hip and whispered her name into her skin with more tenderness than she’d ever imagined possible.

It took a moment, a long moment in which she felt as though she was putting herself back together, before she was able to speak.

“Thank you, Killian.”

“It was what you wanted?”

“Yes.  And more.”

“Then…consider that my wedding present to you.”

“And…will you take your present now?” Emma asked, with little of the coyness she had been aiming for.

“I…this was your present Emma.  I can’t give you much…I just wanted to give you this.  One night that was only about Emma.”

On impulse, Emma leant forward and captured Killian’s mouth with hers, not entirely certain if her intention was to express gratitude or offer enticement.  He tasted a little different and it took her a moment to realise that it was herself she could taste, and that it bothered her less than she thought it might.

“Are you testing my resolve, Emma?” Killian asked her.

“Maybe.”  She still didn’t completely understand just why he was so determined to wait to consummate their marriage.

“It’s all right.  We have our entire lives ahead of us, Emma.  We don’t have to rush.”

Emma rolled Killian’s words over in her mind.  She had spent so much of her life considering only her immediate future, measuring time in obstacles to overcome, counting down the days until the next time she could see Henry but not daring to imagine life beyond that.

The notion of years and years stretching out ahead of her, was a little daunting, but somehow comforting all the same.  Perhaps comfort was not something you had to snatch at after all, but something you could wrap around yourself to ward off the chill of the hard times. 

“How do you know?” Emma asked, not quite ready to let go of the idea that it all might change in a moment, that, once again, any sense of security and happiness could be ripped from her grasp.

“I just…well I want to believe it’s true.  Besides, nothing’s killed me yet.”  The last part was said flippantly, but it was an undeniable fact.   

“But now,” Kilian continued.  “You should get some sleep.”

“I should?”

“It’ll be a busy day tomorrow.  Smee is very fond of breakfast.  You’ll need to be prepared for another battle to the death with that stove.”  Killian chuckled and Emma managed a smile in return as he pulled back the covers for her and allowed Emma to climb into bed.  The candle began to smoke and Killian blew it out.

Emma lay in the dark and listened to the rustle of fabric as Killian undressed, then felt the bed move as he climbed in behind her, she felt his thigh press against her own, and a brush of the hair from his chest against her shoulder blade.  The contact sent a thrill down her spine, a promise of things to come in the days that stretched out ahead of them.

Something else welled up inside of Emma.  Something less carnal, more tender.  Something warm and grateful and, she wasn’t certain if she even dared think it lest it invite disaster, but something happy.

“I’m glad,” she whispered.  “Glad that we still have the future.”

“As am I, Emma.  Good night.”

“Good night, Killian.” 

**Thanks for reading!**


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